


Can't Stop Me Now

by youthoughtyouknew



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Pidge | Katie Holt, Bisexual Disaster Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), F/M, Female Pidge | Katie Holt, Frenemies, Friends to Lovers, Gay Disaster Keith (Voltron), Gay Shiro (Voltron), Heroes and Villains AU, Lance (Voltron) Speaks Spanish, M/M, OH YEAH and there's a bitty bit of violence, Pansexual Hunk (Voltron), Questionable Choices are made, SPRAY PAINT VILLAIN AW YEAH, Some Fluff, Some Humor, Some angst, Villains to Heroes, a teeny bit of fake dating that wasn't supposed to happen, also cats bc cats, also there may be some tears you have been warned, i rip off so many superheroes with this fic omgoodness, i think y'all'll be okay, inspired by Megamind, it’s not the main focus but i feel those should be in there, kinda sorta slice of life but not, lance and pidge are basically adoptive siblings ok, look at that mess of tags hoo boy, other than that it's canon-typical violence, pls forgive me, plus lots of complaining about college, someone gets stabbed but not too badly, technically not beta’d but my grandma helped work out some details so there’s that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 05:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 56
Words: 54,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youthoughtyouknew/pseuds/youthoughtyouknew
Summary: An average college student.A wise-cracking superhuman in paint-speckled spandex.Really,reallydeep in debt.Welcome to my life.
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 462
Kudos: 347
Collections: Just some pretty nice fics





	1. Reflections in an Odd Predicament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be a butt here and not tell you who the protagonist is. (You're probably going to guess anyway.)
> 
> [F**king Perfect (clean)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BIye98Ryic)

I was born to be the villain.

There’s always that one kid on the playground. You know this kid. He’s the one with the too-loud voice, who swings around that big stick and chases the other children for fun, and who the teachers spend more time assigning time-outs to than they spend actually teaching. He doesn’t actually _want_ to hurt anybody (that bad), he’s just too loud, too rowdy, too _rough_.

That’s not me.

Nor am I that kid sitting at the picnic table during recess, scribbling out to-do lists and plans for his next experiment, all alone.

No. Look over _there_ \- at _that_ kid. Yes, I mean the kid with the missing front tooth and the scabby knees, the one who takes impromptu naps in class, draws robots and stick men in capes on his schoolwork, and can’t sleep at night unless he has his rocket night light on. _That’s_ me.

I know what you’re thinking. This child is so _normal_. Look at him, he’s the class clown, he has friends. His mom packs him homemade cookies in his lunch. How could _he_ be born to be a villain?

Well, it’s quite simple. Okay, the story itself is actually pretty long, so I’ll be brief for now. That little joker got older, things happened, and it all kind of went to… well. You know.

But that’s not important right now. What’s important is that I’m currently adhered to the ceiling of the public library’s men’s room, trying not to get caught by the team of superheroes that recently showed up in this city.

Oh, and the stall I’m hiding in is occupied by my very horrified Computer Sciences teacher. I probably should have mentioned that sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly the best prologue I've ever written.
> 
> A note: I won't be posting chapters for this one as often, because there are a lot of chapters that need a lot of careful thought, and also I have a busy season coming up. I'll try to do at least one chapter a week, but there are no guarantees ¯\\_(:/)_/¯


	2. It's No Superpower, But I'm Still Invisible (Mostly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember kids, invading other people's privacy is rude. Please take this into account when looking for suitable places to hide from the police.
> 
> [Breakout](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6XJth5Qr8w0)

I have no idea where these heroes came from.

Okay, that’s not true. I’m pretty sure Lady Light is actually that rich girl who sometimes shows up on the news with her important politician father.

The other guys are a mystery, though. There’s the Dark Knight, who apparently doesn’t know Batman claimed that title first, and Mechaforge, the only superpowered tech wiz in town aside from my friend and part-time partner, who goes by Pidge if you know her and The Gremlin if you don’t.

While we’re doing introductions, my name is Wild Notion. I too have powers, though they are doing _nothing_ to de-awkwardify this situation, which is me having a staring contest with my teacher while he’s seated on the john. He’s obviously been here awhile too, going by the fact that he’s halfway through his book. (Who brings a library book into a public bathroom? That’s just _wrong_. And gross)

The truly awkward part is that I still have a bank box and what looks like a mini energy transformer tucked under one arm and some fancy prototype cables wrapped around my neck like a scarf. Thank goodness for masks, or I’d be too embarrassed to ever attend Computer Sciences again.

Mr. Iverson is still staring at me. So I do the logical thing. I flash my most rakish grin (I call it the Han) and say, “I’ll be going now.” The Defenders are probably gone at this point, so I’m able to maintain my unfazed act as I leap off the ceiling, land well clear of the stall door, and saunter out into the library.

I’ve got my jacket on and my mask, gloves, and loot stowed in my backpack before I’m even out the door. Hey, when you’ve been in the biz as long as I have, you pick up a couple skills. Switching disguises in the span of a second becomes second nature.

Still, it’s hard to act normal when I pass Lady Light talking to a reporter just outside the library.

”We’re only here to deal with a petty theft,” she’s saying when I enter earshot. “Unfortunately, we’ve lost the perpetrator for the time being.”

”Not surprising, since it looks like the thief was Wild Notion,” the reporter says. “The slickest scoundrel the police have never caught.”

I work hard not to grin. Nice of her to say, even if it _is_ overkill. The police barely care that I’m stealing high-tech stuff. They’re just mad that they can’t haul in a small-time criminal such as myself.

”Regardless of Wild Notion’s identity, we _will_ find a way to stop him,” Lady Light says gravely. I’m just about in the clear when she adds, “The other Defenders and I have reason to believe he is preparing to commit a truly heinous crime.”

Ooh, a heinous crime! That stops me in my tracks. As a matter of fact, I _am_ working on a heinous crime. I’m not just stealing all this to make money, after all. (Hey, college costs big bucks.)

But now isn’t the time to dwell on that. I shoulder my bag of stolen goods and continue on my way.

Lady Light, the leader of the Defenders, the glorious new protector of Cosmos City’s helpless citizens, never gives me a second glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. Some things you just can't unsee. (Unfortunately.)
> 
> Note: I have around thirteen chapters already written, so I'll be posting pretty often. My posting rate will likely go down after that, but for now, I'll try to post every day.


	3. I Do Not Deserve This Irony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter le Chaos Bird
> 
> [Wild Things](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPnzgCOUO38)

”_Feliz Navidad_,” I call, letting myself into The Hole, which is what I call my apartment.

Pidge doesn’t look up from her laptop, but I can tell she’s rolling her eyes. “Cut the comedy, Lance. You got the stuff?”

I sigh melodramatically and plop the bag down on the coffee table next to her. “Good to see you too, Pidgey.”

Pidge looks up to make a face at me. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

I grin. “Not enough.” Pidge is fifteen and short for her age. _No_ amount of asking will keep me from treating her like my little sister. Even if she thinks I don’t know she’s not a boy. (She cut her hair, ditched dresses, and changed her name after her brother went missing. More on that later.)

”Thanks for getting the parts,” Pidge says grudgingly. I ruffle her hair and go to change.

Let’s take a second to get you oriented. The Hole is on the ground floor of a derelict old building that nobody actually lives in except us. In a different area, it would have been demolished long ago, but since it’s located in the Slums, nobody cares save for the dude who owns the land. The Hole’s technically mine - I pay the rent, and Pidge has another place where she sleeps - but since it’s where most of our villainous plots are concocted, we share it as a lair. There’s the kitchen/living room (there’s no room for both a kitchen table and a living space, so we eat and work off the coffee table instead), a tiny bathroom, and two little rooms. One is where Pidge’s unfinished projects and hammock for when she sleeps over are kept. The other is my “bedroom”. I say “bedroom” because in reality, I have a sleeping bag instead of an actual bed.

In my room, I remove my suit - black full-length unitard, black elbow gloves and knee boots with blue trim, blue hood, utility belt - and slip into a pullover hoodie and sweatpants. Then I grab my junky old laptop from the shelf and head to the living room to do homework.

Pidge and I type side by side in companionable silence. For all her tough talk, Pidge is a bit of a softie when it comes to moments like this, where we could be family for all the world knows. I’m just finishing an essay when she says without preamble, “Iverson give you any trouble lately?”

”Nah.” I make a face. “But you’ll _never_ guess where I ran into him today.” I tell her about the bathroom encounter and she cracks up. Then we order pizza from Sal’s House of Pizza - the food’s kind of gross, but it’s cheap - and watch a pirated movie on Pidge’s laptop.

I know we’re in a crappy place, living like this, but I’m content where I am. So long as the authorities don’t bust us, there isn’t a problem.

There’s a problem.

I rush through my morning routine like usual, catch the bus a second before it leaves, and skid into my first class - late again.

Professor Ryner speaks with me after class. “I’m sorry, Mr. McClain, but if you continue to show up after I’ve started my lesson, I’m afraid I’ll have to insist you not show up at all.”

I’m aghast. “But I live on the other side of the district!”

That earns me a sympathetic look. Ryner may be super strict, but she’s not heartless. “You could move into a dormitory,” she suggests. “It costs money, but you won’t miss so much of my class.”

”How much is it?” I ask reluctantly, expecting to be alarmed.

She tells me. I’m alarmed.

_Eleven hundred dollars a month?_ I already pay almost that for The Hole - how am I supposed to add _eleven hundred dollars_ to that? But I don’t have a choice. If I can’t finish college, I can’t achieve my dream of running a restaurant, but if I can’t continue working with Pidge, I can’t pay for college, and we can’t operate out of a dorm.

I give Ryner a weak smile. “I’ll look into it.”

Pidge is concerned when I get back from the dorm tour and tell her the news. “Can you even _afford_ that?”

I sigh. “I have to. Maybe I can sell the furniture, get bare minimum cheapest stuff instead.” We both know the furniture _is_ bare minimum cheapest - you can’t get cheaper. “Or I’ll ask Marcy for a raise,” I say without enthusiasm. Another idea that won’t work, since my employer’s not very rich, and too sweet a lady for me to request more money from anyway. The only option, as usual, is more stealing.

Pidge must see how bummed out this makes me, because she says, “I’ll try to find more parts while you’re out. And I can split the rent with you.”

”Pidge, no. I can’t ask that of you.”

She’s stubborn. “Then I’ll ditch my old place and live here. It’s not like I’ll be losing a lot. Besides, you’re helping me with Operation Iceberg. It’s the _least_ I can do.”

”You made my suit,” I remind her. But she’s won and she knows it.

I still have to steal more than before, but not as much as I would if Pidge didn’t chip in. So I’m not entirely guilt-ridden as I hug her in thanks.

Why couldn’t my biological family be this supportive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! Wild Notion is Lance! Were you surprised??
> 
> Links will appear in the Notes from time to time, sometimes in chapters that have already been posted, so I recommend taking a couple of backward glances from time to time.
> 
> [Wild Notion](https://grahoria.tumblr.com/post/619743131310718977/wild-notion-official-art)


	4. I Move in with My Pursuer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's meet Lance's new roommate, shall we?
> 
> [You've Got a Friend in Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5uVEN5z1f0)

The dorm’s nicer than my room at The Hole. It comes with a dresser and a bed that flips up to become a desk.

My new roommate isn’t in when I arrive with my suitcase, so I’m able to make myself at home without worrying about snooping eyes. Privacy is important. I should know.

That said, I can’t help but take a peek at his side of the room. I notice a few things right off the bat. He has a poster of the Defenders (autographed and everything) in the middle of the sea of photos on his wall. (I don’t look at those, since photos are personal.) His bed is covered with a yellow quilt that almost makes me miss Mami. Almost. And there’s a plate of steaming cookies on his dresser. I’m rooming with a fan of the Defenders (called a _Defander_, ugh) who presumably likes to bake.

Whatever.

I finish unpacking, shove my empty suitcase under the bed, and go looking for the dorm bathroom.

When I get back, my roommate is relaxing on his bed with a book and a cookie.

My first thought is that he’s probably taller than me, which is saying something, because I’m no shrimp. My second is that he looks exactly like Mechaforge out of costume.

”Hey,” the guy says cheerfully. “You’re my new roommate, right?”

Well, I wouldn’t be walking in with my toothbrush if I wasn’t. “Yeah,” I say.

”Nice to meet you,” my roommate chirps, getting up and coming over to shake my hand. He’s not taller than me like I thought, but he’s broad-shouldered and bulky, and his hand dwarfs mine. He’d be intimidating, if he didn’t continue with, “I’m Hunk. Well, that’s not my _real_ name, but everybody calls me that, so you can call me that too.” _Hunk._ Fitting. “What’s _your_ name?” Hunk asks.

I try a smile. “Lance. Lance McClain.” I’d feel cooler if I wasn’t holding a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste while I said that. And also if matching Hunk’s voice to Mechaforge’s hadn’t instantly made me nervous. But it’s not an irrational worry. If he recognizes me from my last few heists, I’m cooked.

Fortunately, Hunk doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, and I’m able to relax as he gives me the lowdown on dorm life. Turns out that eleven hundred also covers meals and the cost of using the dorm’s washing machine and dryer. Score! I’ll still have to keep The Hole stocked for Pidge, but since I’ll no longer be eating there (and I have a big appetite, I’m not ashamed to add), the food bill’s about to go way down.

Hunk also tells me that he’s something of a talent in the kitchen. “Do _not_ hesitate to make requests,” he says seriously. “I _will_ take them. Heck, I’ll have stuff waiting for you when you come in. Seriously.”

I’m floored. Of all the superheroes I could have moved in with, I’ve ended up with the best one. He could tell me he’s actually an angel of the Lord, and I’d believe him. True, neither of Cosmos City’s other heroes seem like the kind of person to attend an out-of-the-way college like the Garrison, but still.

”Hunk,” I say, “you are a miracle.”

”No I’m not,” Hunk returns matter-of-factly. “You’re just really skinny.”

Which just goes to show how good a workout committing crime is. You can exist on Sal’s pizza, takeout from that sleazy Chinese place off Hickock Alley, and Twinkies, and you won’t gain a pound.

It’s not surprising that Hunk and I are fast friends before the week is out. It’s _his_ dream to own a restaurant as well. “Either we team up, or we become mortal enemies,” I warn him.

”Team up,” Hunk agrees immediately. “You can do the people stuff and I’ll be the sous chef.”

I was joking, but it’s actually perfect. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not half bad in the kitchen, but Hunk is a master. I bring doggy bags to The Hole for Pidge and she agrees. If I went head to head against Hunk Garrett in a cooking competition, I’d be out in seconds.

I also share my concern about my identity with her. She’s not as worried as I am. “We’re smarter than the Defenders,” she says. (She means _she’s_ smarter, but she’s trying to be assuring.) “Your own mother would have a hard time recognizing you in your suit.” Well, she ain’t wrong. My suit has a few extra features that change how I look: subtle padding in the torso and arms to give the appearance of more pronounced muscles, a hidden platform in my boots that makes me look taller, and a voice changer built into my mask. “I’d be more worried about getting too friendly with Hunk and not being able to stomach facing him on the job,” Pidge adds. Argh, she’s right about that, too. Out of the two of us, I’m the soft one. I’m the one who’ll fall for a friendly act or feel the need to return a favour. Pidge is the skeptic. You need a pickaxe to break through her emotional defences.

But I _won’t_ let my friendship with Hunk get in the way of Operation Iceberg. I’ll just have to get better at not getting caught.

Life is also better on the academic side. I’m no longer late for Ryner’s classes, so my grade rises significantly. Hunk tracks me down at lunch and sits with me, and we help each other with our extra work. It’s mostly him helping me, but I feel good whenever I can be the one to lend a hand. And now that I live on campus, I have constant access to the internet, so I don’t have to go to the public library in order to do online work.

There’s just the small matter of paying rent for both the dorm and The Hole to keep me up at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw the opportunity to do that "hero and villain are roommates who have to keep hiding why they come home beat up" thing, and I took it.


	5. Villains Make Great Baristas (If I Do Say So Myself)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance picking the cutest place ever to work was a decision based partially off of how much I love the Barista Lance AU and partially because having a villain work in an adorable little café for a sweet little old cat lady struck me as Very Ironic.
> 
> [Shine A Light](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EA-1MdGTra4)

Saturday. I arrive at Kettle Corner early and call a cheerful good morning to Marceline as I put on my cap and tie my apron strings around my waist.

”Good morning, sweetie,” Marcy calls back. “You’re here early.”

I maintain my smile, even though she can’t see me. I’m no sweetie. I’m fixing to ask for a raise after work. “Just getting a headstart on the day.”

Marcy emerges from the kitchen and gives me a hug. She’s a diminutive woman, all soft curves and smiles, and she smells like vanilla. Next to her, I feel oversized and gangly. I’m all angles, no curve. (Which works great with the baby blue and white uniform. Gotta love aesthetic.)

Since I’m the first one here, I give the tables a quick wipe down, polish the display counter, and start on the sweeping. Marcy has three cats that she lets roam the café, so someone has to make sure the floor isn’t gross with cat hair. (I don’t know why we’ve never had problems with the board of health about this. Then again, Marcy’s _really_ hard to say no to.) Then Frankie arrives and takes their post in the kitchen, I flip the CLOSED sign on the door to OPEN, and the workday begins.

The thing about Kettle Corner is that what it lacks in size, it makes up for in atmosphere. And the food. It’s not Hunk-level, but it’s always fresh. People are drawn to the simple, homey feel of the café, although some of them may be here for the free WiFi I suggested Marcy invest in awhile ago. There’s this one guy who comes in a couple times a week to sit at the corner table and type away at his laptop. I’m pretty sure he’s a writer or something.

Still, there are usually quiet moments, especially around nine. I have time to review some vocab for an upcoming test before people start coming in for lunch. Then Paul and Louise show up to help Frankie and me respectively, and things get hectic. Today’s especially busy, so there’s not a lot of conversation going on as Louise buses tables and I man the counter. It’s rush rush rush until around one, and then the place clears out. Only the quiet-seekers remain, so Paul and Louise leave, while I go back to doing homework behind the counter. They’ll return again when the dinner rush hits. Next weekend, Frankie and I will be the ones coming in only to help with the lunch and dinner crowds. In other words, next week is Wild Notion week.

I close my book. I need that raise.

When Marcy comes in, I’m cleaning gum off the underside of the tables. “Why, thank you, baby,” she says in delight.

I grin up at her from under the table. “Anything for a lovely lady.”

Marcy giggles. “Oh, you charmer.” She shakes her head fondly and goes to ask Frankie if they’d mind making some extra scones. I watch her go, then get back to work, one of the cats observing from the chair behind me.

Kettle Corner closes just after nine on weekends. The clock reads 8:58. I either have to talk to Marcy now or give up for the day. But I stall, pulling on my jacket with molasses-level slowness. As I dawdle, my pocket buzzes. I pull out Blue, the kiddy texter I use instead of a phone, to see that Pidge has texted me.

> new mark if ur intrstd

Nope. This is _not_ happening during my completely legal job. I slip the toy back into my pocket just before Marcy comes in.

”Thank you for all your help today,” she says, clasping my hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without a good boy like you to keep things going smoothly.”

Now’s my chance. I shift my weight from foot to foot, clear my throat… and cave under the overwhelming surge of guilt that hits me like a tsunami. “It’s what I do,” I choke out.

Marcy stands on tiptoe (I bend down a little) and gives me a grandmotherly peck on the cheek. “I know,” she says warmly. “Take care, honey.” With that, I’m out the door and headed for the nearest bus stop.

As I walk, I pull out Blue and send Pidge a message.

> omw. b rdy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's heist time!!
> 
> Should I bring back chapter titles? Just going by number feels kinda boring, but at the same time, there's a lot each chapter title would have to cover, hmmm  
Anyway, let me know what you think in the comments


	6. I Act Upon The Will Of The Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle your seat belts, 'cause things are about to get heist-y
> 
> [Born To Be Wild](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIfvwwPSHCI)

Pidge fills me in on the heist as I change. “There’s a cruise ship mooring at Dock 12 in fifteen minutes. The passengers will disembark for a two-hour tour of the city, leaving their rooms virtually unguarded. Your job-”

”Sneak on board, steal the shinies, and make like a tree,” I finish with a grin, tugging on my gloves.

”Actually,” Pidge says, “you’ll be doing things a _bit_ differently today.” She holds up a bag with the thrift store logo on it.

Oh boy.

I feel exposed walking down the docks without my mask and hood. But Pidge is right - a teen in black and blue spandex boarding a cruise ship is going to stand out a lot more than a respectable-looking guy wearing slacks and a blazer.

Is this _really_ what rich people wear on vacation?

I put the disbelief out of my mind and try to look sophisticated and relaxed. Even if someone smells a rat, my identity is protected by the black food colouring in my hair, the makeup subtly changing the shape of my face, and Pidge’s glasses, which she has graciously loaned to me for the mission. The “Airpods” in my ears (old earpods with the cords snipped off) and the (stolen) Harry Rosen bag I’ve got hooked over one arm are also part of my disguise, but I still feel kind of ridiculous as I stroll up to the moored ship.

The hull reads _Mercury Cruises_. I grin. Mercury, the Roman god of travellers and thieves. How poetic. The tourists are the travellers, and I am the thief.

There’s a guy in a uniform standing on the gangplank. I flash him the e-ticket Pidge ran up on a scrapped and salvaged cell phone and continue on my leisurely way.

The commercials you see on tv don’t do cruise ships justice. This place is even posher up close and in person. So many doors! I reach into my Harry Rosen bag of tricks and pull out a floorplan. Most people would need a minute to figure out where they are on the map, but not me. I take one look at the map, and my brain immediately orients itself. Thank you, powers. The gloves come out of my bag along with my set of lockpicks, I do my thing, and the first door opens. Superhuman cognition might not be the strongest or flashiest of powers, but to a thief such as myself, it’s an invaluable tool. I’m basically Spider-Man, minus the super strength and web-shooters. (And no, I didn’t forget wall-crawling, but we’ll talk about that later.)

Sooo, first room on the list. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover, so I move quickly. Scanning the room, crucial details pop out to me as clearly as heat sources through infrared goggles: a jewellery box sitting on a bed stand, a couple of twenties (??) poking out of a jacket pocket, and - get this - a piggy bank nestled in a kid’s suitcase. I stow the twenties and a few pieces of jewellery in a grocery bag I had ready and waiting in the Harry Rosen bag, leaving the kid’s stash alone (I’m not _that_ bad a person), and move on.

Each suite yields something valuable. I quickly fill my first grocery bag, and have to pull out my second. (I keep lots of tightly rolled-up grocery bags in my utility belt for loot.) Every couple of suites, I remove a battery from the tv remote and add it to the bag. Batteries can be sold or used in projects, after all.

While avoiding some cruise staff (cruise crew?), I get a text from Pidge.

> 1 hr lft. rdy 2 dlivr?

> yes

I type back. A moment later, a familiar hand pokes out of Blue’s screen. I press the handle of the first bag into Pidge’s grasp. Both appendage and bag disappear into the texter. I wait until her hand reappears to pass her the second bag. Then Pidge retreats to let her powers recharge, and I get back to work.

Forty-five minutes later, I get another message.

> dun?

I send an affirmative and wait for Pidge to reach through for the last of my haul. Once she has everything, she texts

> get out b4 ppl get back

> omw

I reply. Then I find a restroom and take off the blazer and slacks, leaving me in my unitard and boots. On go my mask, hood, and utility belt. That feels much more natural. I’m no longer a nameless rich kid. Now I’m Wild Notion, escape artist extraordinaire. After pausing to flash a peace sign and a cheeky grin at the security camera, I climb the wall - hooray for wall-crawling! - and leave the bathroom on the ceiling. Crossing the hallway without being seen is easy. Nobody thinks to look up, especially when they don’t know something’s going on.

The door leading out onto the deck isn’t locked, not that I was expecting it to be. I jump down and simply walk out. Then I climb onto the railing and leap off.

To any onlookers, I appear to have taken a near-suicidal dive into the bay. In reality, I fall maybe twenty feet before sticking my feet out and landing solidly on the side of the ship. I remove my spray paint from my belt and quickly scrawl a big blue WN on the metal, finishing another successful heist by signing my initials.

From there, I climb down until I’m barely out of reach of the waves lapping at the hull, and crawl horizontally along the waterline. I chose to exit on the side facing away from the dock, so my escape hasn’t been noticed by anybody watching from land. Now I’m below most viewers’ sight line as I crawl along the side of the ship and stop under the gangplank, directly beneath the guard. He probably doesn’t even notice when I get to my feet and jump to the underside of the gangplank, because the tourists are coming back. I can hear them as I make my way down to the pier and crawl on the bottom of the dock to where an old boat nobody’s used since who knows when is moored. A bit of scrambling and I’m upside down no more.

I stroll along the dock, nodding at anyone who stares at my outfit, and merge into the crowd that fringes the dock even at eleven at night.

I’m gone before anyone even thinks to call the police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like this heist was a success. What do you think?


	7. Fanboying Saves My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's introduce another character, shall we?
> 
> [Outrageous](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRQCJb_rKhw)

”Did you hear about the cruise ship that got robbed yesterday?” Hunk asks.

”No,” I say truthfully. I haven’t _heard_ about it because nobody’s _told_ me about it, right? _Logic._

”A bunch of passengers came back from a tour and found some of their stuff was gone.” Hunk shows me an article on his tablet. “They did an investigation, and it turns out the thief somehow hit every suite on the ship.”

”Do they know who did it?” I ask.

Hunk nods. “Someone saw Wild Notion jump off the ship and disappear right before the passengers got back. And his signature graffiti was on the side of the ship, see?” He taps on an image and a picture of my mark appears.

”Wow,” I say, for lack of a better reaction. “He must be stupid if he goes around signing his name like that.”

”Or crazy,” Hunk agrees. “But he’s never gotten caught, so...” He frowns thoughtfully. “What I _really_ don’t get is why he didn’t take more stuff. According to the news, he only stole a few things from each room. He left with a lot less than he could have. Isn’t ‘unstoppable superthief’ his whole deal?”

”Maybe he’s just a really nice guy,” I suggest, internally smiling at Hunk’s description.

Hunk considers this for a moment. “Maybe. Or maybe Wild Notion was looking for something in specific.”

”Yeah.” Time to change the subject. “The Defenders are looking into it though, right? They’ll catch him for sure.” I roll onto my stomach and prop myself up on my elbows. “Hey, speaking of, who’s your favourite Defender?”

You can _see_ the alarm bells go off as Hunk realizes he’s suddenly on very shaky ground. “I-I dunno,” he stammers, making a play at casualty. “Dark Knight’s pretty cool. But I just, like, really _respect_ Lady Light, ya know?”

I nod wisely. “You’re right. I think they’re _both_ really hot.”

Hunk sputters. “Wha- Not like that! Lady Light’s just a strong, independent woman I admire and respect! Shay’s the only one for me!”

”Hey, no, I get it,” I say soothingly. “I’m just saying, Lady Light and the Dark Knight are both _gorgeous._”

”I know, right?” The words burst out of Hunk’s mouth like he’s been holding back for awhile. “Like, the whole thing with the hair, and they look _amazing_ in costume, and Dark Knight’s jawline… They could be _models_ or something.”

”There should be a Defenders movie,” I suggest. “Like _The Avengers_, but with, you know, less avenging, more defending.” I’m half joking, but he’s nodding like this makes sense, so I really get into it. “They wouldn’t need actors or stunt doubles or anything, either. Just the original trio of hotties doing their thing in front of a camera. They’d make _millions!_” Honesty alert! “Half of it would probably be from me,” I admit.

”That’s a movie I’d pay big bucks to see,” Hunk agrees. He pauses. “So. Uh. Which Defender is _your_ favourite>”

”Mechaforge,” I say immediately. “I mean, getting rescued by a tall dark and handsome ninja is for sure on the bucket list, but if I could actually _meet_ a Defender and, like, _hang out_ with them for the day, I’d hands-down pick Mechaforge, ‘cause he’s the most relatable. Like when the Defenders are fighting a villain, and he’s the most scared but also the most humorous about it? And he’s super nice to everyone all the time, which is amazing. The others are just kind of polite and standoffish. Plus, _all those muscles._”

Hunk’s blushing. “Oh. Wow, hey, look at the time! Gotta get some shuteye for that presentation tomorrow!” He scrambles for the light switch.The dorm is plunged into darkness, hiding both Hunk’s embarrassment and my wicked grin.

Mechaforge _is_ my favourite Defender (mainly because it’s Hunk), but at least part of me said all that just to tease him. Think of it as a dig for calling me an unstoppable superthief to my face. I can be petty like that.

I’m feeling pretty keyed up from all that fanboying, so I wait until I hear Hunk’s breathing slow before slipping out of the dorm, Blue in hand. Leaning against the wall, I text

> im famous

Pidge responds a moment later.

> ur alrdy famous dolt

> well yeah

I say.

> more famous

> ur thrilled r’nt u

> yes

I admit.

Pidge’s response arrives literally seconds after I hit send.

> dolt

I chuckle and am typing out some kind of comeback when the door to my left opens. I don’t look up, which is a mistake. A second later, someone runs into me - _hard._ Blue clatters to the floor, and I only _just_ keep myself from following suit.

”What the- Why are you standing in front of my door?” my attacker demands.

”I _wasn’t_,” I retort, turning to face him. He’s a couple inches shorter than me, pale-skinned and dark-eyed. That’s all I can really notice about him, because he’s wearing a puffy black bathrobe, and there’s a towel draped over his head for some reason. I can’t even tell what colour hair he has - if he has any.

Towel Head folds his arms and gives me a ticked off look like, _I’m waiting._

”I’m standing in the space between _your_ door and _mine_,” I say in that annoying self-righteous tone my younger relatives are very fond of using. I can’t help it. This guy’s judgemental attitude rubs me the wrong way. _I’m_ not the one with a towel on his head, dude.

We glare at each other for half a minute. Then Towel Head goes, “Alright, _fine_, I’m sorry for bumping into you. But you _were_ in my way.” He bends over and picks up Blue. His grumpy expression morphs into confusion. “This isn’t a phone,” he says, sounding absolutely puzzled.

”It is not,” I agree primly, taking back the blue-painted toy. “It’s a two-way messaging device, half of an exclusive set.”

Towel Head actually looks a smidge impressed for a nanosecond, before he realizes it’s a cheap toy and huffs in what could be amusement. Then his face goes right back to grumpy. “Whatever. I’m going to go shower.” He gives me a vastly unimpressed look. “Not that that’s any of your business.”

”Have fun,” I say sarcastically as he stalks past. He makes an equally sarcastic scoffing sound without looking back.

And that’s my first run-in with the neighbours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about y'all, but I smell unresolved tension


	8. I Get More Than I Came For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things get interesting
> 
> [Mission Impossible](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAYhNHhxN0A)

The Mercury heist is on the news for several days. Wild Notion has, in the eyes of the public, moved up from petty criminal to brilliant thief. Despite having been seen with that big Harry Rosen bag by multiple witnesses, nobody has connected the villain with the passenger who boarded right after everyone else left. Maybe the guard’s embarrassed that he didn’t prevent the crime, which is kind of his entire job. I know _I’d_ be embarrassed.

But the press makes a big deal out of what they _do_ know. The Defenders investigate the ship, then start going through the streets with a fine-tooth comb.

Pidge and I lie low for the next couple of days. But eventually, the need for parts has Pidge scoping out my next mark.

”There’s some neurocranial transmission and reception tech being manufactured by Sparrow Industries,” she says, laying out a blueprint.

”More prototypes?” I guess.

”You got it.” Pidge taps the paper, pointing out security cameras. “I’ll hack the cams, giving you a clear path to the storage rooms. Remember, we can’t predict what’ll happen, so-”

”- take two,” I finish.

Pidge nods. “You’re looking for a headband like from _Big Hero 6_, and a chip or circuit board, probably in the same packaging.”

”_Big Hero 6_ headband,” I repeat. “Got it.”

”This is _big_, Lance,” Pidge warns as I pull up my hood. “Sparrow Industries will be more prepared for intruders than the other marks you’ve hit.”

”More prepared than the bank?” I scoff. “It’ll be fine. Besides” - I put on my mask, and my voice changes to the Squip’s from _Be More Chill_, which I love - “Wild Notion is an unstoppable superthief. Mechaforge said it himself.”

”_Laaance_,” Pidge groans, but she knows I’m just letting out some pre-heist jitters. My best advice for being confident is _fake it ‘til you make it_.

I shake out my arms and wiggle my fingers. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

It’s after midnight, so it’s basically pitch black in the hall I’m sneaking down. Fortunately, my mask also doubles as a pair of night vision goggles.

Let’s take a moment to appreciate my mask. It’s one of Pidge’s masterpieces. The lenses fit almost perfectly in front of my eyes and appear to glow blue if the lighting’s right. The rest of the time, they’re perfectly clear, so you’d have to try to poke me in the eye to know they’re there. In other words, I appear to have completely unprotected eyes that see perfectly in the dark, glow on occasion, and can repel pretty much anything less deadly than a speeding bullet. _And_ the mask makes me sound like Keanu Reeves. You can_not_ tell me this thing _isn’t_ super cool.

Anyway.

The darkness is no problem as I sneak deeper and deeper into the building. I reach the storage room without incident and stick two neurocranial whatsits into the pack I’m wearing on my back. Then I pull out my trusty spray paint, make my mark on the floor, and am turning to head back when Blue buzzes in its utility pocket. I check it to find an urgent message.

> door wuz wired

> get out NOW

Oh crap.

I pocket Blue and run. Halfway down the hall, Pidge texts me again.

> laser grid active. use ceiling

Lasers. Of _course_ there are lasers! What kind of cliché break-in would this be without lasers?

I scale the wall and flatten myself on the ceiling. I inch along on my stomach until Blue buzzes.

> hall clear til intrsctn

> go thru wndw + down wall ext.

I obey instantly. If I get caught now, it’s all over.

No time to check for alarm wires on the window. I pull it open, climb out, and shut it behind me. Then I scramble down the wall as quickly as I can. I have to get out of here before the police show up. I jump the last five or so feet to the ground, turn the corner, and skid to a halt three inches away from the person lurking by the wall.

Time slows to a crawl. I meet the guy’s eyes for what feels like a year but must only be a couple of seconds.

Sirens wail in the distance, and time speeds up as we both jump and automatically turn to see where they’re coming from. Then we lock eyes again.

Those sirens are close and getting closer. This guy is a witness.

Lights flash red and blue out of the corner of my eye. I make the choice.

In one motion, I whip off my hood and wrap it around the guy’s head, tying it behind his ears, then throw him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and book it.

I’ve always been good at track. Now, with a person almost my height and of a thicker build slung over my shoulder, my feet might as well have wings. My captive is too busy trying not to get jostled off to fight to get free, or even to uncover his face, which is a big help.

Still, the exertion is wreaking havoc on my breathing as I turn down an unlit alley, cut through a partially demolished house, and clamber up the side of a boxy building with dark windows, only stopping when I’ve reached the roof, which is flat with a three-foot rampart. I put my captive down carefully, then quickly remove my hood and reattach it to my suit, pulling it up so it covers my hair and forehead. I turn to face the Sparrow Industries building, which is still visible from blocks away and being painted in the colours of police lights.

Only now does it sink in that I have just stolen a person. Kidnapping has officially been added to my list of crimes I regret.

I sigh. “Sorry about this,” I say, turning to my captive. “We’ll just have to wait here a bit ‘til things blow over.”

”And then what?” the guy demands. “You murder me?”

His voice. That face. He’s harder to recognize without the shower getup, but it’s so obviously him.

I snuck in and out of a corporal bigwig’s fortress without being seen, only to be caught in the act by my own neighbour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu


	9. My Neighbour is a Cryptid-Loving Idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you successfully commit a crime but then have to abduct someone to keep the police off your trail, and it turns out to be your dislikeable neighbour :(
> 
> [Despicable Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mgUVf79Yg8)

”And then what?” my neighbour demands. “You murder me?”

I find my voice. “Of course not! What kind of monster do you think I am?”

”You just robbed a company and abducted me, and you sound like the Squip, and you think I’m gonna _trust_ you?” Towel Head fires back.

”You have a point,” I admit. “But I swear on my life: I’m not going to kill you. I have this strict no-injury policy I’m not permitted to break.”

”Permitted by who?” Towel Head asks suspiciously.

I flash him the charming grin I fittingly call The Charmer. “By _me!_”

”Well, _that’s_ comforting,” Towel Head mutters.

I choose to ignore that.

We wait a few minutes. I take the opportunity to get a better look at my captive. He has black hair in a mullet - a _mullet_, for crying out loud! No wonder he’s such a grump - and has a pretty average build, from what I can see under his dark jacket. Lots of black on this guy. Either he’s Just That Emo, or I’ve kidnapped a big fan of the Dark Knight.

”_Crap!_”

”What?” Towel Head/Emo/Mullet says irritably.

I’m too frustrated at myself to snark back. “The Defenders’ll be here any minute. The next action we see could be Lady Light come _flying in_ to check things out.”

Towel Head/Emo/Mullet gets it. “So...” He gazes thoughtfully at the rampart. “My best chance at being rescued would be to...” Without warning, he charges past me, jumps onto the rampart, and throws himself off.

Or at least, he _tries_ to.

I lunge forward and wrap my arms around his middle as he leaps into thin air. A hard yank has the idiot tumbling backward to safety. “Are you _crazy_?” I rage, shoving him further from the edge. He stumbles back, breathing hard and looking a bit stunned at his own actions, but that’s not enough for me. “Of _all_ the _stupid_\- Do you have a _death wish_ or something, Mullet? You want to end it all splattered on the pavement?”

”Better that then at the hands of a wannabe supervillain,” Towel Head gasps defiantly.

”I AM NOT GOING TO KILL YOU!” I roar. “I’M A _THIEF_, NOT A MURDERER, YOU STUPID EMO!”

He snaps his mouth shut and glares daggers at me. I return it full force, and we devote a few minutes to stabbing each other with our eyes.

”I’m not _emo_,” Towel Head grumbles at last.

”Tell that to your outfit,” I say shortly. “You’re like the Dark Knight, but smaller.”

Towel Head starts to object, then goes still. “How did you know I’m wearing black?”

I have half a second to remember it’s actually really dark outside before Towel Head removes a phone from his pocket and activates the torch feature, training it square on my face. My vision goes blue-tinted, and I know my mask lenses are glowing before Towel Head gasps and fumbles his phone.

“Turn that off,” I say, reaching to cover the light before it can blind me again.

Towel Head obliges, but holds up his phone so the screen casts a glow over the two of us. “Your eyes - you can see in the dark? Are you a cryptid of some kind?” He advances on me and reaches for my face.

”Do _not_ poke my eyes,” I growl. I draw myself up to my full height and tilt my head slightly so the lenses catch the light and flash once, briefly; Towel Head retreats to a less intrusive distance. “And you had a phone on you the whole time?”

Towel Head slips the device back into his pocket, zips it, and gives me a defiant scowl. “You never searched me,” he says petulantly.

I huff. “Do you _want_ me to?” Towel Head takes an emphatic step back and raises his fists, which is all the answer I need. “Did you dial the police on the way here?” I ask.

”No,” Towel Head admits reluctantly.

Okay, _not_ the answer I was expecting. I tilt my head. “Really? Why didn’t you?”

Towel Head shrugs.

I sigh. “Okay, _don’t_ tell me. Just keep it off until I’m gone.” He stares at me, no doubt confused. I ignore him and lean over the rampart to check on the police situation.

The Sparrow Industries building is still being swarmed by cop cars. If you squint, you can _just_ make out a white- and pink-clad figure hovering over the crowd.

”Crud, the Defenders are here.” I turn to Towel Head. “It’s been a real pleasure,” I say sarcastically, climbing backward onto the rampart and standing tall. “I’d offer you a lift, but you’ve clearly got things under control.” Insert pointed look at jacket pocket here. “Have a good one!” I salute grandly and hop backward off the roof, alighting on a little ledge encircling the building a storey below the roof. Then I turn, do a controlled slide down the wall, hop off a few metres from the ground, and land lightly on my feet. I spare a moment to turn and bow theatrically at Towel Head, who’s watching from the roof, and then I’m gone.

> WHERE R U??

> got sidetracked

I respond.

> wut hppnd

> had 2 deal w/ a witness. were good now

> deets. now.

I take my time figuring out the best way to summarize the incident.

> dude saw me omw out. Took him on n adventure

> wut did u do

> nothing! Just had a chat w/ him

> on a roof

> off dustbiter alley

Pidge’s exasperation bridges cyberspace even without the use of her powers.

> LANCE.

> hes fine

> how do u no

> bc hes in the dorm bthroom rn

> u no him?

> no

I text.

> iv only met him 2ce now

> did he rcognize u

I laugh out loud at that one.

> no

> u sure

> he thought i wuz a cryptid so

There’s a pause. I picture Pidge squinting at her texter, not sure if she’s read that right, then cracking up when her eyes tell her she has.

Sure enough, her next message says it all:

> lol

> it wuz ur mask lenses

I explain.

> he shone a lite @ my face

> i like this guy

> wuts his name

> idk i call him towel head

> ?

> he puts his towel on his head when he goes 2 shower

> and hes super emo?

Pidge’s response is... unexpected.

> omg bring him home im begging u

> wut y

> i must meet the emo cryptid lover

> im not doing that 2 myself

> :(

> fine u lousy cryptid

> *partner in crime

> nope ur a cryptid now

> u suck :(

> sticks n stones bro sticks n stones

> gnight pidgey

> >:0 NOT PIDGEY

> :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no logical explanation for why <strike>Keith</strike> Towel Head would come _closer_ to a potentially dangerous cryptid in order to examine its eyes <strike>except that it's Keith</strike>
> 
> Click [here](https://grahoria.tumblr.com/post/612951436597362688/im-kidnapped-by-a-hot-headed-superthief) to read an alternate chapter where their roles are swapped


	10. I Don't Take Thwarted For An Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did some soul-searching. Chapter titles are a thing now.
> 
> [REVO](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wfe_QBN0SBg)

It is Wednesday, my dudes. It is Wednesday, and it’s my turn to work the long shift, and therefore I am very tired.

The long shift, by the way, is what we at Kettle Corner take turns working, with the short shift going to whoever isn’t working the long shift that week.

Basically, long shift: workdays Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and coming in for meal rushes on the weekends. Short shift: workdays Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays.

This week is Frankie and me. Lucky us.

I’ve been behind the counter taking orders and doing my best not to yawn for who knows how long now. It’s a slow day, but I can’t nap on the job; what if a customer comes in while I’m asleep? Normally I enjoy my job, but I’m honestly just feeling overtaxed. I can’t even look forward to closing time, because I have to finish an important project before tomorrow. And after _that_, Pidge needs me to case a warehouse that’ll be receiving a shipment of sheet metal later this evening.

Sigh. Why does my life have to be so _busy?_

Finally, Marcy sets us loose to “eat supper and enjoy being young,” as she puts it. Yeah, because I’m _really_ enjoying student debt, pretending I’ve already turned eighteen so Child Protective Services stays off my back, and the downsides of college in general. But you don’t say stuff like that to little old ladies, much less little old ladies who treat you like their beloved grandchild, so I just bid Marcy goodnight and move on to the next item on the docket: schoolwork.

Hunk is riveted to his tablet when I walk in. He has his earbuds in and appears to be having an epic staredown with the screen.

”What’s up?” I ask, plunking myself down on my bed with my laptop. No response. “_Hunk._”

Hunk looks up, pausing whatever he’s watching and pulling out an earbud. “Huh? Did you say something?”

”I asked what’s up,” I say. “You look like you’re trying to take your tablet apart with your eyes.”

Hunk loosens his white-knuckle grip on the device and chuckles self-consciously. “I’m just really interested in this article. Wild Notion broke into Sparrow Industries a couple nights ago, and _get this_ \- he apparently got caught by a passerby, so he _kidnapped_ the dude.”

”No way,” I exclaim.

”The victim was found stranded on top of a building,” Hunk goes on in the voice he normally uses to explain a complicated crime-bust to reporters who don’t quite get it. He’s not even aware he’s doing it, and it’s actually kind of funny. “Wild Notion just _left_ him there. Isn’t that _crazy?_”

”Totally,” I agree, opening my project. I’ll find a way to change the subject soon, but now isn’t the time. If I do it too early, I’ll look suspicious. After all, there are only so many tall, thin Hispanic guys with blue eyes and the right build to be Wild Notion. It’s a testament to Pidge’s ingenuity and Hunk’s obliviousness that I haven’t been recognized yet.

I quickly tune back in to what my roommate is saying.

”There’s this blog, Cosmic Super Vision,” Hunk enthuses. “It’s all about the supers of Cosmos City. Lots of theories and stuff, and he’s really thorough about including every incident. You should check it out!”

”Maybe later,” I say, not looking up; I’ve got limited time to finish this. But really, it’s not me I’m trying to sell this fact to.

”Oh. Okay.” Hunk settles back into his comfortable position and returns to his video.

Success.

”Hunk’s found the new love of his life,” I inform Pidge as I suit up.

”Really.” Pidge is too engrossed in her diagrams to bother pretending she’s interested. “Who’s that.”

”Some blog called _Cosmic Super Vision_,” I recall. “Run by a superhero fanatic who never misses an incident, apparently. I think Hunk thinks he can use it to predict crimes before they happen.”

”That’s kind of the point of _predicting_,” Pidge points out. But I’ve caught her interest. “Cosmic Super Vision,” she muses. “I’ll look into that.”

”Do it while _I_ look into tonight’s shipment,” I suggest.

Pidge nods at that, then glances at her watch. “Better get going. It’s due to arrive at six thirty, and you’re going on foot.”

”I’ll make it,” I say confidently, putting on my mask. “This mission couldn’t _be_ more chill.”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “_Go_, you theatre nerd.”

So I go.

There’s nothing like casing a joint to make you feel like a bona fide spy - except maybe hiding in a precarious spot with a recording device and listening in on a top secret conversation.

I find a suitable tree across the street from the warehouse and settle myself on a sturdy branch to wait.

A few minutes later, a large truck arrives. I watch carefully as a bunch of workers carry the shipment into the warehouse.

”What are you going to do with all that metal?”

I almost fall out of the tree, that’s how hard I jump. I look down to see - who else? - Towel Head lurking in the tree’s shadow, also watching the workers. “That _is_ why you’re here,” he continues as if proving me wrong.

”What are _you_ doing here?” I hiss.

Towel Head shrugs. “I went for a walk and noticed a thief in a tree.”

That’s trash and he knows it. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction of making me ask for the truth. I return my gaze to the warehouse, scanning for security features Pidge might have missed.

“You’re going to get caught,” Towel Head says matter-of-factly.

I scoff. “I’m _never_ caught.”

”I’ve caught you _twice_,” Towel Head returns. “And the police are going to catch you for the first time if you try to steal that metal.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What did you do.”

“Nothing.” He points at the warehouse. “But this place is going to be under police surveillance for a long time.”

You’d have to be an idiot to miss that hint. “You’re the worst.”

“Hey, I’m warning you, aren’t I?” Towel Head’s voice is sharp. “Consider this thanks for not taking my phone.”

“If you want to thank me, leave me alone,” I snap. “I _need_ that metal.”

Towel Head throws his hands up like, _I can’t believe you!_ “Then _buy metal!_”

“I _can’t_, genius!”

“Why.”

“I’m not telling _you!_”

“Well, you’re not getting that metal illegally.” Towel Head folds his arms and smirks. He’s _proud_ of himself for ruining everything, the jerk.

I grit my teeth, but manage to turn it into something like a dangerous grin. “I look forward to proving you wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking this could be a problem.


	11. I Gain a Masked Nuisance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, not another one!

I wish I could see the look on Towel Head’s face when the news comes out: Wild Notion somehow emptied an entire warehouse fully stocked with sheet metal without the guards noticing a thing until afterward. The only evidence is a big blue WN scrawled on the floor.

Never mind that Pidge is actually the one who entered the warehouse through an exposed wire, spray-painted my mark on the floor, and transported all of the metal out through the texters. As far as everyone is concerned (and that means Towel Head too), Wild Notion is the culprit.

For the record, I _was_ there, making sure the security cameras saw an action-free room the whole time Pidge was in there, so that’s not completely inaccurate. But nobody pays attention to the college kid doing “homework” on a nearby bench. Being a teenager can be kind of awesome like that.

To celebrate our success, I bring Pidge a box of enough goodies to feed Bowser for a week. Hunk went a little overboard with the care-package-filling when I mentioned my <strike>little sister</strike> friend wasn’t feeling well. And no, that wasn’t a lie. It drains Pidge to transport things other than herself through technology. Pure metal, like the sheet metal she stole, is easier for her than anything else, but that was a _lot_ of metal she had to transport. She’s _still_ tired and nauseous, and the heist was _two days ago._

“How you doing?” I ask, letting myself into The Hole.

Pidge groans from the couch, where she’s surfing the web amid a mound of pillows. “Do me a favour and punch Cryptid-Lover the next time you see him.” Cryptid-Lover is, if you hadn’t guessed, her name for Towel Head. She doesn’t want to meet him anymore, at least not peaceably.

“I’ll get the message across,” I promise, before realizing something. “How are you getting internet?”

Pidge just gives me a look and returns to her browsing. I’ve been dismissed.

I set Hunk’s care package on the coffee table where she can reach it and go to check the mini fridge (aka the _only_ fridge) and take inventory.

Hmm.

A half-full carton of milk. An assortment of picked-through goods of the fruits and veggies variety. A sad-looking baggie holding a single slice of Sal’s pizza. She’s running low on eggs, cheese, and carrots as well. (Pidge loves chomping on carrot sticks while she works.) I’ll have to make a grocery run soon.

“Hey Lance?” Pidge calls from the couch.

“Yeah?”

“Does Cryptid-Lover have a mullet?”

“Yeah, why?” Wait, how does she know that?

Pidge sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Don’t freak out, but I think you’ve got a Lois Lane.”

“_What?_” I practically slam the fridge door shut in my haste to take a look at Pidge’s screen. The article is a blog entry covering the sheet metal heist for the famous Cosmic Super Vision. But what catches my attention is the photo at the bottom of the entry.

It’s a selfie in front of the warehouse we hit. A black mask has been drawn over the top half of his face using Photoshop, but his serious expression (and his mullet) are a dead giveaway.

“That’s Towel Head,” I confirm. “_He’s_ the guy behind Cosmic Super Vision?” Stupid question. Of _course_ he is.

“Uh huh,” Pidge says grimly. “And you’re his new favourite topic. Check it out.” She passes me the laptop.

I scroll up to find the Search bar and enter _wild notion_. A list of entries comes up. _Yikes_, that’s a lot of entries.

The older ones are about my more famous heists, the ones that made the news. Then the Sparrow Industries heist comes up.

Ignoring my gut instinct to quickly scroll past, I click on it. There’s a short article, followed by an audio file and a link labelled _Transcript_. I open the transcript.

> [police sirens in distance, heavy breathing, footsteps]
> 
> [footsteps stop. something lands on the ground. heavy breathing continues, fabric rustles, footsteps move away.]
> 
> Wild Notion: [sighs] Sorry about this. We just have to wait here a bit ‘til things blow over.
> 
> The Masked Reporter: And then what? You murder me?
> 
> Wild Notion: Of course not! What kind of monster do you think I am?
> 
> The Masked Reporter: You just robbed a company and abducted me, and you sound like the Squip, and you think I’m going to trust you?
> 
> Wild Notion: You have a point. But I swear on my life: I’m not going to kill you. I have this strict no-injury policy I’m not permitted to break.
> 
> The Masked Reporter: Permitted by who?
> 
> Wild Notion: By me!

I’ve read enough. I go back to the main article and click on the audio file, hoping it’s maybe a retelling of the heist. But Towel Head, or the Masked Reporter or whatever, did too thorough a job with that transcript for it to be from memory. And I’m right. The quality isn’t great, but you can’t mistake it for anything else.

Towel Head didn’t call the police because he was using his phone to record the incident. Unbelievable.

“Wow,” Pidge says as the embarrassing recording finally ends. “I’d be mad at you for putting everything at risk like that, but that's the funniest thing I've seen all year.”

“Thanks,” I grumble.

Pidge adjusts her glasses. “So that scuffle you had - he tried to jump off the roof?” It’s a serious question, or it _would_ be, if she wasn’t still grinning.

“I’m glad my very stressful and unpleasant ordeal amuses you,” I say sarcastically. “And yes, he did. I might have mentioned that he’s an idiot.”

“An emo, idiotic cryptid-lover with a mullet,” Pidge muses. “He sounds great. If only he hadn’t tipped off the police.” She waves a hand at the laptop. “But go back to the entry list. Seriously.”

I comply. After the Sparrow Industries heist, there are a bunch more entries leading up to the sheet metal job. Most of them are theories about Wild Notion. One article is a profile. When I click on it, it shows a picture taken from a news article, a short summary of Wild Notion’s perceived personality (flamboyant and witty), a suit description, a list of crimes I’ve committed, and a summary of my powers, which only mentions wall-crawling, night vision, and the possibility of super strength, and which admits to being a work in progress.

”This is freaky,” I say.

Pidge nods in agreement. “At least you’re not the _only_ one he’s profiled,” she points out, taking the laptop and pulling up a list of profiles on Cosmic Super Vision. Going through the list reveals that Towel Head has been keeping tabs on the Defenders and past heroes as well as Cosmos City’s villains. Pidge’s alter ego, the Gremlin, is listed, but only for a few minor crimes committed shortly after her brother disappeared. My list is much longer.

After checking out the profiles, we spend some time going through the rest of the blog. I learn a few things about Towel Head. He _is_ a fan of the Dark Knight, judging by how very thorough the Dark Knight profile is, and he has actually gotten a couple of interviews in with the Defenders. He references fictional heroes and villains a lot, so he must be into Marvel and DC. And, of course, there’s his About the Author page, which is _very_ informative.

> The Masked Reporter is an ordinary college student by day and an intrepid note-taking vigilante by night. His goal is to become a big-time journalist. Until then, he uses his superpowers of observation and research to bring readers the news of all things super.

”Not the kind of self-introduction I was expecting from _mi enemigo_,” I comment.

”It sounds like someone trying to describe him without actually describing him,” Pidge agrees.

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t blame them.”

”You’re just salty that he’s caught you twice,” Pidge says dismissively. “Snitching aside, he seems pretty cool.”

”Don’t start,” I snap. “Hunk’s already tried to get me to talk to him. I do _not_ want to get to know Towel Head.” Pidge smirks. “I’m leaving,” I growl, grabbing my jacket. “I don’t want you fangirling over that stupid mullet when I get back.”

”_Saaallltyyy_,” Pidge sings as I storm over to the door.

”Whatever, Pidgey.” And the door closes on her indignance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saltiness, thy name is Lance


	12. I Take Some Time to be Depressed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You langst lovers out there should be happy with this one.

There’s a dingy little corner store just inside the invisible line separating the Slums from the respectable side of the city. That’s more than a few blocks away from The Hole, but I don’t take the bus. I need to sort out my mind. I need to think.

Pidge is right that I’m bent out of shape. She just doesn’t know how much - or why.

Sure, I’m a bit miffed that I keep running into someone I don’t like, in places said person really shouldn’t be, but that’s not what has my stomach tying itself in sailor’s knots. Seeing Pidge’s list of crimes, comparing it to my own, is like a punch to the soul.

Trespassing. Breaking and entering. Invasion of privacy. Theft. Vandalism. Resisting arrest. Kidnapping. And the ones they _don’t_ know: unauthorized possession of illegal technology, aiding and abetting another criminal, harbouring aforementioned criminal, identity fraud, and intent to commit a hate crime.

Those are just the names of my sins; the list of every specific crime I’ve committed could fill a judge’s agenda for the next month.

And then there’s Pidge’s. Hacking, theft, and resisting arrest, with the unknown crimes being parent/teen conflict, construction and possession of illegal technology and intent to commit a hate crime. She’s just a kid, still innocent, still with time to turn her life around before she hits adulthood.

That’s why, when we met and I took her under my wing, I insisted on being the one to do most of the dirty work. I was already a thief then, and I was willing to do worse if it kept a good kid like Pidge from following suit.

Every mark I leave, every piece of my soul I sign away, I do it so she doesn’t have to. And it’s worth it. It always has been, and it always will be. But it weighs on me _so much_ sometimes.

Even worse, in the moment of the heist, I _like_ it. I _love_ being in the suit, defying the odds, making the name I’ve chosen just a _little_ more known with every impossible success.

Am I so far gone that I _enjoy_ making other people’s lives harder? The question haunts me at times like this, when I’m reminded of how far I’ve fallen. In protecting Pidge’s soul, have I completely destroyed my own?

The corner store comes into sight. I scrub any wetness from my face with my sleeve, force a neutral expression onto my features, and go in.

There’s no need for a grocery list; I remember every item Pidge needs. Milk, cheese, eggs, a fruit platter (good for covering a lot of fruits for a low price), carrots. I add a couple of Oh Henry! bars to my load, even though I’ll be scraping the bottoms of my pockets at the cash register. It’s kind of my fault Pidge is ill, I reason as I pay. If I hadn’t been so careless with the Sparrow Industries heist, Towel Head wouldn’t have taken such an interest in me, and I could have stolen that metal without Pidge having to overwork her powers. I owe her at least a couple of get-well-soon chocolates.

As I load my purchases into a paper bag - no Earth-killing plastics for _this_ villain - I admit to myself that Towel Head is also part of the reason I’m in such a lousy mood.

Until recently, I was only ever spotted when I wanted to be. A discreet sighting of Wild Notion here, a flashy appearance there, just to give the public a face to pin the mysterious graffiti on. When the Defenders turned up, I delighted in brief encounters that inevitably led to them scratching their heads in confusion as I got away yet again. We’ve even had a couple of scuffles, which certainly shook things up for me. Inhuman perception is good for anticipating a foe’s next move as well as instantaneously picking out important details and memorizing grocery lists.

My point is, never getting caught was my _thing_ \- until a certain mullet-headed jerk stumbled into my life mid-heist, and suddenly I’ve been catalogued, profiled, and almost kept from completing what should have been an easy-breezy heist. I don’t like being someone’s special project.

Also, it’s kind of creepy that Towel Head knows so much about me. Is one accidental kidnapping really all it takes to get a guy’s attention? Not that I’m interested in _this_ particular guy. Even if he _does_ have kind of a nice face.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s only doing it because he hates me, which is fine. I hate him too. And I _really_ hate the idea of being turned into a hobby for this guy.

Something has to be done. It sucks, but it’s necessary if I want to maintain my privacy. Wild Notion is officially switching to the night shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, ouch, my heart


	13. There are Some Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the dreaded night shift. _This_ won't end badly.
> 
> [It's My Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQIHTe7cYCg)

Pidge gets it when I tell her we should change our operating hours to late at night unless absolutely necessary. “That should work for most of them,” she says, making updates on her schedule. “To be honest, I always thought your showy daytime heists were a bad idea.”

That stings a bit. “Hey, if you’re gonna be a villain, you gotta act the part,” I say breezily.

Pidge shakes her head. “‘Acting the part’ is what got you in this predicament to begin with.”

“That’s not what got Towel Head interested.”

“Yeah, but if you’d just kept a low profile from the start, he wouldn’t even know you exist.”

She has a point. “Well, we’re fixing _that_ mistake now,” I relent. “Towel Head’ll lose interest and find someone else to creep out once he figures out he can’t catch me.”

Pidge bites her lip. “I just hope you’re right.”

Midnight. My first night heist, even if it’s technically not a heist. Nobody cares if nuts and bolts go missing from a junkyard.

Pidge has given me a list of items she needs. She’s out babysitting for some rich night owls right now, so it’s just me. She does odd jobs for money on days when there isn’t a heist that needs her attention, and this is apparently one of those days.

Whatever. I don’t need help looting a junkyard.

My night vision lenses are proving to be my new best friends as I sneak through the yard, pausing every now and then to pick up a piece that stands out to my super keen eyes. Most of my quarry’s buried beneath other junk though, so I have to dig through the mounds to find them.

It’s almost one by the time I’ve filled my utility pockets and backpack. Now I only have to find one more bolt and then I can go home and get to bed. Scavenger hunts are a _lot_ more fun when it’s not after midnight on a school night.

I pick through another heap, and it’s only through luck (or perhaps the little moments of uncanny intuition that hit me from time to time) that I glance up and notice a single bolt nestled in junk near the top of a nearby mound. _Perfect._ I’ll be in sight of the street if I’m not careful, but I’m not in the mood to look for another one.

I scramble down the junk hill, sending a few scraps clattering, climb the bigger mound, and reach for the last bolt… and my vision lights up blue as a flashlight beam hits me in the face. I throw my free hand up to protect my eyes. From between my splayed fingers, I spot a familiar face staring up at me from the street, eyes narrowed.

Towel Head.

Well, this calls for a quick exit. Taking a chance, I close my eyes (the glowing lenses should hide it) and wave at him. Towel Head, confused, lowers his phone enough that I can open my eyes again. I take the opportunity to snatch the bolt and flash it at him, too quick for him to see what it is that I’ve just stolen. “Ha!” I crow. “Not today, Mullet!” I salute sassily and duck out of sight behind the mound.

A rapid slide, and I’m running near-soundlessly through the junkyard, skirting heaps and mentally praying that the element of surprise has given me a great enough headstart.

And wondering if Towel Head walking past just as I let my guard down was really a coincidence.

Pidge needs paint. I do too, actually. I barely had enough in my can to leave my mark back at the junkyard. So my next job is, shockingly, the paint store.

I’ve hit this place multiple times, but usually only during the day. The sensors don’t notice a thing if you use a magnet to deactivate the little magnetic sticker on the can before you leave. The trick is to slip the can into a shopping bag already containing other stuff and browse for a bit, then go to the bathroom, demagnetize the sticker in a stall, and walk out of the store like you’ve already made your purchase.

It’s kind of weird to be here at night. Pidge has disabled the motion sensors and security cameras, and my lockpicks have the door open in seconds. The place is mine.

I stroll up and down the aisles, admiring the paint, until I find the colours Pidge wants. Forest green, ocean blue, any and all kinds of black available. I also grab white, since I have a pretty good idea what Pidge is going for, and she’s going to need it. The store doesn’t have enough cans of the stuff we need; I’ll have to come back once they’ve restocked.

I text Pidge, and she reaches through to transport the cans out.

Then it’s off to my favourite aisle: the spray paint. There’s a specific shade of blue that I always get. Normally, I only take one can at a time, since it’s kind of hard to be inconspicuous with a bulging, clanking bag on your arm, but there’s nobody to see me now, so I take two or three. I’m reaching for my last one when a voice says, “I _knew_ you’d be here.” Go figure. It’s Towel Head.

I grit my teeth and turn to face him. “Are you _following_ me? Sorry, but I’m not into stalkers.”

Towel Head looks a little caught off guard by that, but he crosses his arms and says with something like dour satisfaction, “Your mark was pretty faint, back at the junkyard. You were out of paint.” Nice try, Mullet, but I’ve found your weakness: you’re easily confused by casual talk in this kind of situation.

I nod. “I was,” I agree candidly. “But I’m good now.” Towel Head watches suspiciously as I take the can, shake it well, and carefully, delicately spray my initials on the floor in front of the counter. “This’ll do,” I say, and slide it into my holster, where the old can was until I chucked it.

Towel Head makes a frustrated noise. “Why can’t you just shop like a _normal person?_”

“The obvious logic here,” I say with an amused smirk, “is that I’m not a normal person.”

He looks like he’s going to scream. So I step around him and head out the door, right between the sensors.

I’m already crossing the parking lot of the strip mall when Towel Head catches up. “How’d you do that?” he asks.

I give him a bland look. “Do what?”

Towel Head opens his mouth, closes it again, scrunches up his face like he’s mad at himself, then exhales angrily and says, “Not set off the sensors.”

“Oh, _that._” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m a superthief.”

“How are you SO ANNOYING?” Towel Head bursts.

I shush him. “Keep it down. People are going to think you’re a hoodlum.”

“YOU ARE LITERALLY WEARING A-” Towel Head stops himself with a great deal of effort, then continues in a quieter voice. “You’re _literally_ a supervillain, wearing a supervillain costume, walking down the sidewalk with the stuff _you just stole._”

“I am,” I agree.

“And _I’m_ the one people will think is trouble?”

“_I’m_ not the one yelling in the street at two in the morning,” I inform him. “And by the way, it’s a _suit_, not a costume.”

“You’re the most irritating villain ever,” Towel Head growls.

“So how come you keep seeking me out?” I snap. “If you hate me so much, don’t come _looking_ for me. I’m not hurting anyone.”

“_Every_ crime hurts someone,” Towel Head says heatedly. “That’s why they’re _illegal._”

That hits me hard. It’s _true_. My thoughts must show on my face, because Towel Head doesn’t sound all that accusing when he says, “Isn’t _hurting people_ the whole point of being a villain?”

“The only difference between a villain and a hero is that one has morals and puts others first,” I say quietly.

Towel Head huffs. “Is that what you think you are - a misunderstood _hero?_”

“No.” I fix my gaze on the cement in front of me. “I’m no hero.”

“If it bothers you so much, stop breaking the law,” Towel Head tells me in a sort of angry exasperated voice.

I stop and give him the frustrated angsty teenager glare. “You think I don’t _want_ to stop? _Some of us don’t have a choice_, Mullet. We can’t just snap our fingers and magically have all the good, _legal_ answers to all our problems! Ever think of that?”

“No,” Towel Head says quietly after a moment.

I cross my arms and look away. “Whatever. I don’t need to explain myself to _you._”

We stand there in silence for what feels like eternity. I half wish he’d shine his phone at me so the glow hides the tears I can’t keep from pooling in my eyes.

“I’m not going to call the police,” Towel Head blurts.

I’m startled into meeting his gaze. His expression is sincere, apologetic even. “Not this time, anyway,” he adds quickly.

“Why?” I ask.

Towel Head shrugs awkwardly and looks away. “I just… I’m bad at apologies, okay? I said some harsh stuff about things I don’t actually understand, and that wasn’t fair. So... sorry.”

Wow. I… was not expecting an apology from him, like, _ever._ “I’m touched,” I manage.

Towel Head almost smiles before he remembers we’re technically still enemies and turns it into a determined scowl complete with folded arms and jutted chin. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. You won’t have a chance to use much more of that paint, because I’ll unmask you next time.”

“You can _try_,” I say spiritedly. We smirk at each other. Then I shoulder my backpack and step off the sidewalk into a dark alley. “_Adios_, Mullet,” I call, and take advantage of the deep shadows to slip away. A single glance back tells me he’s still looking in my direction, but he looks slightly offended, and one hand is tugging on a clump of his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... alrighty then


	14. Heads are Messed with

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which certain people are very stubborn, Keith is easily frustrated, and Lance displays his ability to think on his feet.
> 
> [Take On Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPP3o7CM9yY)

“It’s not working,” Pidge says.

It’s Sunday, praise and thank the Lord, and I’m at The Hole recuperating after a particularly hectic lunch rush. I just wasn’t expecting those words to be Pidge’s opening line when I walked in the door. “Operation Ditch the Mullet?”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “I still can’t believe you _named_ your schedule change. And yeah, that’s not what’s working.” She shows me Towel Head’s blog. There are three new entries: the scavenger heist, the paint heist, and a list of the stuff I’ve stolen throughout my sticky-fingered career.

Pidge is watching me, waiting for one of the melodramatic reactions I’m known for, but all I can think of is _At least he didn’t record anything this time._ “Stubborn butt,” I say.

“Now what?” Pidge asks. Our roles have reversed. _She’s_ looking to _me_ for a plan.

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Pidge is great at coming up with plans - when she has time to do research and calculate the variables. Me, I’m the master of plans in unpredictable situations. I’m spur-of-the-moment, she’s long-term. It’s what makes us a great team. But that’s also what’s keeping Pidge from seeing what I see right now: the method to dealing with this unexpected development.

“We outlast him,” I announce. “I’ve only been operating at night for two heists so far. We’ve given the plan next to no time to work. And sooner or later, all the late nights will catch up to Towel Head. He’ll either give up, or, more likely, get sloppy.”

“What do we do until then?” Pidge asks, taking notes.

I tap my chin and pace. “We shake things up,” I decide. “Case one building, rob another. Hit a day before or after he thinks I’ll show up. Let myself be seen on one side of the city right before a heist on the other side. Commit crime during the busiest time of day. The less predictable _I_ am, the farther behind _he’ll_ fall.”

“Right.” Pidge looks slightly pained. As a scientist and a firm believer in order, my chaos-filled plan will be hard for her. That’s not too big an issue though. We’re playing by _my_ rules now. And I say _game on._

I almost feel bad for Towel Head. His brain is in for such a beating.

I start by leaving smudges of blue paint in places he’s already caught me, since I know he’s probably visited those places before. It’s a small thing, but taking the number of theories on Cosmic Super Vision into account, I feel it’s safe to say he’ll notice and immediately suspect something’s up.

Next on the list is the public appearances bit. I’m careful not to overdo it. Wild Notion only appears twice, and I allow only a couple of people to see anything. It’s still enough to make the gossip circles I’m so good at finding.

There’s so many more tricks I could use, but I don’t want to exhaust my arsenal before my first heist using them even happens. Good luck tracking me _now_, Towel Head.

He’s still there when I steal a bunch of cables for Pidge, but he only arrives as I’m leaving the crime scene.

I’m not concerned. “Have you called the police yet?” I ask calmly.

He shakes his head, still panting from running.

”Oh, so you’re here for something _else!_” I pull a sheet of paper out of my backpack and set it on the ground. “If you wanted an autograph, Mullet, you could have just said so.” I grin at him, then spray my mark in miniature on the paper and hand it to him. “There you go.”

“I don’t want your autograph,” Towel Head says grumpily.

“You’re not throwing it away,” I observe.

Towel Head actually holds it closer to him as if to protect it. “I’m keeping it for _investigational purposes!_”

I nod in understanding. “This is like friendship bracelets for you,” I say, faking enlightenment.

“No!” Towel Head’s defensive tone sounds equal parts that’s-not-true and I’m-threatened-by-how-true-that-is.

“Uh _huh_.” I put lots of skepticism into the word, but my amusement seeps into my voice and kind of spoils it.

He glares at me, at a loss for words.

”Now you give me one,” I prompt. He honestly looks so lost, I can’t help but smile. “_Dios mio_, Mullet, don’t you have friends?”

“More friends than _you_ do,” Towel Head blurts, trying to sound in control and failing miserably.

I smirk. “Good for you. Want a medal?”

Towel Head blinks, then, apparently forgetting he’s holding a still-damp autograph, clutches his head. “Stop that!”

“Stop what?” I’m genuinely asking.

“_That!_” Towel Head basically yells. “Messing with my head! Throwing me off!”

I click my tongue apologetically. “Yeeeah, that’s going to be a problem. Sorry,” I add sincerely as Towel Head’s eye twitches.

There’s a supremely uncomfortable pause. I take a moment to observe the paint he has just mashed into his hair before I break the silence. “Sooo...” I shift my pack of cables. “Can I make my daring escape now, or…?”

Towel Head snaps out of it. “No, because you’re not escaping.” He fumbles for his phone, awkwardly balancing the paper on his left hand. By the time he has it out, I’m nothing more than a memory.

There’s a flaw in my plan. I realize this when my light bulb-collecting job is interrupted by Towel Head hurrying in with his phone at the ready.

“Are you psychic?” I ask as he dials 9-1-1.

He frowns and shakes his head. “Hello, police? I’m reporting a robbery at Renno-Mart on-”

“Tell them I say hi,” I chirp, leaning in closer so the phone picks up my voice. Towel Head glares at me, then repeats the address. “Don’t forget to say they have to hurry,” I advise loudly. “Be dramatic. Sell it!”

Towel Head mutes the call so we can talk without being overheard, then hisses, “What are you _doing?_”

I grin at him. “Discrediting you.”

“I hate you,” Towel Head growls, before unmuting the call. “Yeah, Wild Notion’s stealing light bulbs-”

“That’s _me!_”

“Shut. Up.” He doesn’t hit mute this time. _Wow_, he’s _bad_ at this. “He looks like he’s about to leave-”

“Are we done yet?” I complain. “This is boring. Can we do something else?”

He grits his teeth. “That’s not going to work. No, he’s trying to make it sound like a false alarm,” he says into the phone. “This is serious, you need to come- What?”

A pause while the guy on the other end speaks.

“DANG YOU!” Towel Head bellows at the phone. He turns to me, furious. “He hung up! You’re such a-”

“Clever guy?” I guess.

Towel Head’s eye twitches again. Not too stable lately, my enemy. “I’m going to be in a lot of trouble for trying to fake an emergency,” he grits out. “Are you _happy_ now?”

“Absolutely,” I say cheerfully. “And no, you won’t be.” I point first at my haul, then at the mark drying on the wall. He doesn’t get it right off the bat, so I explain. “Renno-Mart’ll report the theft, the police will realize you tried to warn them and feel dumb, and I’ll be long gone by the time anyone believes you. A three-way win!”

“You are the _literal worst_,” Towel Head growls. “I _can’t_ stress this enough.”

I stick my tongue out at him. “How about you dump some of that stress and not try to catch me?”

“I’ll do that the day _you_ stop _stealing_,” Towel Head shoots back.

“You’re telling a _villain_ to be the bigger person? That’s _rich_.” I sneer a little. “Lucky for you, it’ll be obvious when _that_ happens.”

Oh. _Crap!_

I snap my mouth shut, but Towel Head has already jumped on my mistake. “You’re planning a big final heist, aren’t you?”

“I never said that,” I say, trying to sound unaffected.

Towel Head starts pacing. “You’re getting the supplies you need for the master plan. _That’s_ why you’re stealing all those parts!” He’s talking with his hands almost as much as he is with his mouth, that’s how convinced he is of what he’s saying. Suddenly, he stops pacing and grabs me by the shoulders. “You’re building something big! Something that’ll help whatever it is that you’re after!”

There’s a brief pause while I take in this shocking deduction.

“Wow,” I say in (faked) amusement. “Way to think big. Which movie are you referencing?”

Towel Head’s urgent expression wavers. “What?”

I laugh. “I’m _selling_ the parts, Mullet! This stuff’s in high demand on the black market. It’s good money to supply it.” I gently remove his hands from my shoulders. He lets me, face full of uncertainty.

I almost feel sorry for the poor mullet. After all, he put together a theory that explains everything I’ve done thus far, only for it to crumble in front of his eyes. Reasonable doubt is a powerful tool if introduced at just the right moment.

“I’m sorry to get you worked up for nothing,” I add sympathetically. “But there’s no big heist. I’m making enough money to support me until I can find a proper job, and then I’m retiring from the thief business.”

“But you said it’d be obvious,” Towel Head mumbles.

I smile pityingly. “No more graffiti or appearing on the news. Not everything can be a huge production.”

At that, Towel Head shakes his head hard and steps back, face going determined. “No. I’m not buying it. You’re the flashiest villain in the city!”

“Well _yeah_,” I admit. “I’m _totally_ gonna steal something uber cool and famous and go out in style.”

He doesn’t look overly convinced, but he doesn’t keep accusing me either. His face is set in a mistrustful frown that I suspect is a popular look among conspiracy theorists. “Okay,” he says at last. “But I’m watching you.”

“_That’s_ not creepy,” I remark. It’s now that I realize the flaw in my plan. “Hey, by the way. How do you keep finding me?” Pidge and I can be as chaotic as we want, but it won’t do any good if we don’t know what’s tipping Towel Head off every time he catches me.

The Towel Head in question folds his arms. “Trade secret.”

“Oh, come on.” I elbow him lightly, prompting him to step out of reach. “There’s gotta be something. Informant, monitoring police cameras… Ooh, did you plant a bug or tracker or something on me when I stole you?”

“You didn’t _steal_ me,” Towel Head objects instead of answering. “You _abducted_ me.”

I shrug flippantly. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. Still taking something that isn’t mine.”

“Your attitude about crime is all over the place,” he notes, but there’s no real sting in his voice. He actually looks kind of amused.

“You know, _most_ people try to stay _away_ from their former kidnappers,” I point out.

“I’m not most people,” Towel Head says wryly. “To quote a certain dummy in a mask.”

I shake my head. “Touché. But seriously, how do you keep finding me?”

He smirks. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Let’s skip that,” I agree. “Speaking of skipping, aren’t you kind of missing out on something important right now>” He looks confused, so I spell it out for him. “Like _sleep?_ Don’t you have stuff to do tomorrow- uh, later today?”

Towel Head makes a face. “College isn’t my top priority.”

“Well, _I’d_ like to get some sleep tonight,” I remark. “So if you’re not going to call the police again, would you mind if I…?”

Towel Head sighs. “Fine. I’ve been discredited already anyway.”

I jog toward the exit, and am about to make my getaway when he calls, “Just… try not to sell your junk to the next evil overlord, alright?”

I laugh as I pause in the doorway. “Mullet, you _know_ me. How would I even _find_ such a person?”

“You’re Wild Notion” Towel Head calls back. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

I have to smile at that.

As I head for The Hole to drop off the haul and my suit (and then to the dorms for some shuteye, hallelujah), I realize something else; I _enjoyed_ that encounter. Towel Head isn’t all that horrible when he’s not accusing me of being a monster or judging my life choices.

Huh.

Looks like I’ve got myself a new frenemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love the frenemies trope.


	15. We Talk Game Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *high school basketball player voice* GET YA HEAD IN DA GAME

“Welcome to Kettle Corner, may I take your order?”

“One serving of Lance’s attention, please.”

For the first time today, I focus on the customer’s face. It’s Pidge. Oops . “Hey. Sorry ‘bout that. What’s up?”

Pidge adjusts her glasses. “We need to talk.”

“Sure,” I say, although talking is kind of the last thing I feel like doing. A yawn fights to get out as I glance at the clock. “I get off soon. Can this wait?”

“No,” Pidge says bluntly.

I can’t help the sigh that escapes me. “Okay. Just… order something and find a table. I’ll come when there’s no line.”

Pidge shoots the menu blackboard a wistful look, but shakes her head. “I didn’t bring any-”

“My treat,” I add.

She frowns at this, but orders a Nutella hot chocolate and finds a table where she can sit facing the counter. I try to ignore the feeling of her eyes on me as I take orders and bring customers their food.

Finally, everyone in the café has been served, and I take a seat across from Pidge. She’s got a mess of wires and metal things half-constructed on the table in front of her, which she sweeps aside as I plop down in the opposite chair with a sigh. I’m so tired.

“You look tired,” Pidge says.

I huff a laugh. “Thanks for the update. Did you interrupt my workday just to tell me that?”

“No.” Pidge takes a sip of her hot chocolate. “I’m worried about your game plan.”

“It just needs patience,” I insist. “Once T.H. is worn out, there won’t be a problem.”

Pidge holds up an accusing finger. “That _is_ the problem. Your plan - the only player getting worn out is _you_. T.H. just keeps seeing through your strategy. You’re not just dealing with some noob.”

The gamespeak is all code for Operation Iceberg, in case you hadn’t figured that out yet. The perfect way to discuss our schemes in public without anyone getting suspicious, unless, like me, you don’t have enough energy to think straight.

Heh. _Think straight._ What a joke.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Pidge says, and I focus my gaze on her grim face. “Staring at the table and giggling at nothing. How late were you _playing_ last night?”

“T.H. didn’t let me leave,” I mumble.

Pidge throws up her hands in exasperation. “You don’t _know_, do you?” She peers at me through her glasses. “We need a new game plan.”

“I have a better idea,” I say. “Keep trying the old one, but take a break for a few days. Maybe you can cover my character until then?” I feel horrible for asking her to commit crimes for me, but this is the best tactic, it really is.

Pidge considers it. She’ll agree, though. I know this is one of those rare times when her logic lines up with mine. “Okay,” she says at last. “But things don’t get better, we come up with something else. Got it?”

I nod.

“Great.” Pidge stands up. “Thanks for the cocoa. I’ll pay you back later, when I-”

“_Pidge_,” I say slowly and clearly. “My. Treat.”

She sighs. “_Fine_, you stupidly generous cryptid.” I tug on a tuft of her hair affectionately and get back to the counter.

The salted caramel cake pops - today’s dessert special - are gone, so I head to the kitchen, where Frankie is putting the finishing touches on a fresh batch.

“These look great,” I comment as I take the tray.

Frankie grins at me and turns to open the cupboard, nearly smacking me in the face with their ponytail. They don’t say much, but boy do they make a mean cake pop. It’s fortunate for my paycheque that I’m a master of self-restraint when it comes to not eating the café wares.

The divine scent of the cake pops wakes me up a little as I back through the swinging door and turn to restock the counter. I hum as I open the glass case, which is why I barely hear the bell over the door ring.

That’s why when I happen to glance up, I nearly spill the tray. There’s only one person waiting to be served, and it’s the _last_ person I wanted to see today.

Towel Head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that one person who seems to pop up wherever you are, completely by accident? <strike>Keith</strike> Towel Head is That Person


	16. There is Literally No Way to Ditch This Guy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New emoji: ¯\\_(:V)_/¯  
I call it the Uncontrollable Spewing of Crap Face, not to be confused with my Other New Emoji, Evil Ranting Face  
¯\\_(>:V)_/¯
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter

It’s Towel Head.

Why does the universe hate me so much? I don’t have the energy or the brain cells necessary to deal with him right now.

But he’s a customer. Crap.

“Welcome to Kettle Corner,” I say in my least-panicked voice. “May I take your order?”

“What the heck?” Towel Head says instead. “You _work_ here?”

“Um, _yes?_” I gesture at my outfit. The baby blue Starbucks-style cap. The matching apron with the white trim and the Kettle Corner logo embroidered in golden thread over my heart. The fact that I am behind the counter holding a tray of cake pops and asking to take his order. I _clearly_ work here.

“For how long?” Towel Head demands.

“Since some time last year,” I answer shortly. I’m _tired_, __Towel Head. I don’t have the energy to handle your aggressive conspiracy theorist crap right now.

Apparently my face doesn’t convey this properly, because Towel Head’s feathers still look ruffled when he says, “I think I’d remember seeing you here.”

“You _didn’t_ see me,” I remind, miffed. “You didn’t see anything all the time you were here. Just your screen.” I’m sorry, but this bugs me. It’s obvious now that Towel Head is Kettle Corner’s writing regular - he’s wearing the hoodie that’s kept me from recognizing him until now (a raised hood does that to an onlooker), and he’s got a laptop tucked under one arm. He’s come countless times, but always just to sit at the corner table and use the WiFi. Never any orders. Just the WiFi, the parasite.

Wait. He’s still a customer.

I take a deep breath and say evenly, “Now are you going to order anything?”

Towel Head barely looks at the menu before answering. “One large espresso. No cream, no sugar.”

“Oh my God,” I say before I can catch myself. He frowns at me. “Sorry.” I set down the cake pops and take up the barista’s book. “One large black espresso” - _don’t gag, don’t gag_ \- “coming right up.”

Towel Head nods curtly and stalks over to his usual spot in the corner. _Dios_, he’s emo. Even his _coffee_ is dark and edgy. I almost want to make him one of my custom drinks, just to lighten _something_ up. Unfortunately, Marcy is a _big_ believer in the law of The Customer Is Always Right. I’d have to recommend it to him and get a yes before I could do it, and it’s not hard to tell that _that_ won’t happen. With a sigh, I start on his espresso.

Towel Head is staring at his laptop when I arrive at his table. He looks up as I announce, “One large espresso, no cream, no sugar.” I set it down in front of him, then wait as he digs out his wallet to pay.

The espresso stares at me. Nothing against our quality of coffee, but this pitch-black abomination horrifies me. “I’m sorry, but who even _drinks_ this?” I blurt.

Towel Head glares at me. “_I_ do.”

“But _no cream or sugar?_” I protest.

“I’m lactose intolerant and sweet things are the worst.”

I recoil like I’ve been slapped. I can’t help it. “_Dios mio_, Towel Head, that is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Towel Head blinks, then scowls. “What the _heck_ did you just call me?”

Oops. “Towel Head,” I explain, trying not to cringe at my blunder. “Because when we met, you had your… you know… _towel._ On your head.”

A pause. Towel Head looks thrown. “Never call me that again,” he says at last.

I tilt my head. “Does that mean you’ll be ordering here again?”

“No,” Towel Head growls. “Today’s special.”

I look around. All the customers in the café - and that’s about five other people - have been served. It’s not long until closing time. So I sit down across from Towel Head. “What’s the occasion? If you don’t mind me asking.”

He stares at me. “Shouldn’t you be working? Not...?” He waves a hand at our table.

“Nobody to serve,” I point out. He looks so defeated by that, I add, “But I can go if you’d rather be alone.”

Unexpectedly, Towel Head sighs and says, “No, it’s fine. I’m just kind of tired and frustrated.”

“How come?” I ask.

He taps his laptop. “Hobby problems.”

“Can I see?” I’m turning the laptop to face me before he can answer. He’s got a blank blog entry up.

“Hey-” Towel Head begins, just as I say, “You blog? Cool.” He stops, looking puzzled. “What’s your focus?” I ask. “‘Cosmic Super Vision’. Ooh, are you an astrologer or something?”

“No,” Towel Head says slowly.

“An amateur eye doctor?”

“No!” He regards me with something like amused confusion. “Do you really not know what Cosmic Super Vision is?”

I shrug. Not lying if he takes the gesture a certain way..

“Really? Wow.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks out over the café before returning his gaze to my face. “I’m writing articles about Cosmos City’s heroes and villains. Sightings, profiles, theories...”

“Do you want to be a journalist once you’re out of college?” I ask.

He actually smiles. “Yes! Most people assume I want to be a reporter after they read my blog.”

“No offense, but I can’t see you as a reporter.”

“Me neither,” Towel Head says emphatically. “Talking to people for a living - _blech._”

“Can’t say I agree with that. But you do you.”

“_Thank_ you!” Towel Head throws his hands up. We kind of smile at each other in understanding. Then Towel Head says awkwardly, “So… why do you have a toy instead of a phone?”

I take out Blue and set it on the table so he can see. “I only have one person I’d need to text anyway.”

“Hunk?” Towel Head guesses. Apparently he knows my roommate. I shouldn’t be surprised.

“My little sis- _sibling_,” I correct.

He blinks. “But why not get a real phone?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

Neither of us says anything for a long minute. Then I feel the need to ask him something. “You said you were frustrated. What’s up?”

Towel Head sighs. “It’s this one villain I’ve been dealing with. He’s been getting really hard to find lately, and I’m getting worried.”

“Whoa, you actually _talk_ to villains?” I exclaim. “That’s so cool!”

Towel Head chuckles tiredly. “Just the one, actually.” His expression darkens. “I’m pretty sure he’s plotting something really big, but he keeps messing with my head. And if I can’t keep tabs on him, things could get ugly.”

“That’s gotta be stressful,” I sympathize. “Who’s the villain?”

“Wild Notion.” Towel Head’s voice goes into that Conspiracy Solver tone of his. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. “He recently switched his MO to working at night, but I’m an insomniac, so I’m the best person to monitor his activity.”

“Wow,” I say, and mean it. No wonder Operation Ditch The Mullet isn’t working.

“Yeah,” Towel Head says, sounding a bit pleased. I guess he likes having someone be impressed by how hard he’s working on this. Very relatable of him. “I just wish he wasn’t so good at throwing me off.”

“Isn’t Wild Notion an evil mastermind?” I ask.

Towel Head frowns. “I’m not sure he’s all that ev- Hang on. A _mastermind?_”

“He’s never been arrested, right?” I explain. “And he messes with your mind? He’s gotta be _some_ kind of smart.”

“You’re _right_.” Towel Head stares at the table, eyes wide and unseeing. Then he grabs his laptop, clicks a few times, and starts typing at potentially superhuman speed while I watch. It’s oddly fascinating, the intensity he exudes as he works.

Finally, he clicks once and looks up at me. “Thanks,” he says a bit breathlessly. “That was really helpful.” His eyes, which I previously thought were the colour of charcoal, are actually a deep, intriguing shade of purply-indigo, like the ocean right before a twilight storm.

“No problem,” I manage. I’m about to say more, but then the bell over the door rings, and another customer enters. “Gotta go,” I say, standing up.

“Wait,” Towel Head says as I take a step toward the counter. “I’m Keith.”

I smile at him and take the hand he offers. “The name’s Lance.”

“Lance,” Tow- _Keith_ repeats quietly. I like the thoughtfulness in his voice. Then he says in his normal voice, “Thanks again.”

“Anytime,” I say. “Good luck with your blog.”

He’s still there when I look his way five minutes later. But the laptop is closed, and he’s smiling into his espresso.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance, watching Keith drink his <strike>coffee as dark as a politician's soul</strike> espresso:  
<https://i.gifer.com/origin/d2/d2e196474280e73b3b49125214aa17a8_w200.gif>


	17. The Frenemy of My Alter Ego is My Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We stan one (1) Sneaky Boi
> 
> [Hand of the Enemy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6gCDbyODKM)

Keith is already at the junkyard when I arrive. I sneak closer as he stalks between the mounds, flashlight in hand, then stops and crouches to examine something on the ground. “What’re we looking at?” I ask.

Keith jumps and is immediately on his feet, whirling to face me so quickly that I’m blinded by his flashlight. There’s a brief silence save for Keith’s heavy breathing.

“Sheesh, Mullet,” I say, covering my eyes. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to greet people?”

“Don’t sneak up on me,” Keith growls. He keeps the light aimed at my face a moment more than is necessary, then lowers it. “Here to steal more scrap?”

“No, just out for a stroll in my crime suit,” I say sarcastically. He rolls his eyes. “If you want to help, I’m looking for five-inch screws,” I add.

“I’m not helping you,” Keith snaps, and goes for his phone. I wait while he searches his pockets.

“Looking for this?” I hold up the device. It has a red case with a white emblem on it, which goes against everything I know about its owner.

“How did you-” Keith lets out a frustrated growl. “Give that back!”

I turn the phone over in my hands, admiring it. “Mmm, no.” I tuck it into an empty pocket on my belt. “Maybe when I’ve got what I came here for.”

“I hate you,” Keith grumbles.

“Screws,” I reply. I’m actually looking for components, but he doesn’t need to know that. (Okay, that’s not true from _his_ perspective, but it certainly is from mine.)

He folds his arms. “I’m _not_ helping you.”

“Okay,” I say cheerfully. “Your company is enough.”

Keith actually turns and takes two steps toward the gate before realizing. “You _want_ me to leave!”

“Not at all,” I say partially sarcastically, then continue in a fake sobby voice, “Junkyard trawling is so _boring_ and _lonely_ when it’s just me." I drop the act and shrug. "Besides, if I wanted you gone, I’d’ve thrown your phone.”

He narrows his eyes. “You _wouldn’t._”

I pull back my arm and make a big production of pretending to hurl the phone over his head. “Yeet.”

“I can’t believe this,” Keith mutters. I waggle my eyebrows at him, and he groans. “So now what?” he demands. “I sit here and watch you dig?”

“Or you could help,” I offer.

“Not happening.”

“Then sit there and watch me dig. It doesn’t bother _me_ if you want to spend your night being bored.”

“Do you exist _just_ to make people’s lives hard?”

“Do _you?_”

“There is _so_ much I could be doing right now instead of babysitting you.”

“Well, I’m not gonna lie,” I say bluntly. “This would take a _lot_ less time without having to explain that I want you to leave, but I can’t trust you not to call the cops, and I’m too nice a person to just break your phone. Of course, you _could_ just leave and I’d get it back to you, but somehow, I don’t think you’d do that.”

Keith just glares at me.

“I’ll let you know when I’m done,” I say, and then I get to work. I gather a couple of screws, just because he’s watching (and also because screws are really frickin’ convenient to have on hand), but once I know he can’t see what I’m picking up, I start going for the broken electronics.

Maybe five minutes pass before Keith calls, “What are your superpowers?” He’s followed me from mound to mound this whole time, not getting close enough to be a part of what I’m doing, but never far behind.

“Why do you want to know?” I ask, although I _know_ why.

“I’m not answering that,” Keith says.

I consider his question for a second or two. Pidge wouldn’t tell him, but I’m not Pidge. I’m Lance. Also, I kind of like spending time with Keith. “I’m the criminal version of Spider-Man,” I answer.

“You were bitten by a radioactive spider?”

I laugh. “No. My powers came in when I hit puberty, like every cliché superhuman ever born.”

“But you have Spider-Man’s powers.”

“Not the superstrength. And I don’t have artificial web-shooters.” I pause to dig out an iPad with a shattered screen. “I’ve got this kind of spidey-sense that helps me notice important things right away, and can help me predict little things, like when something is about to fall over or what hand a hero is going to punch me with. Stuff like that.” Ooh, a retro game controller! Too bad it’s irreparably busted. “It also helps my brain work better. I can look at a thing or problem and just... understand. Like when I stole your phone.”

“You could tell which pocket it was in and when the best time to take it was,” Keith says slowly.

I nod. “And I can calculate how well something will work, if it’s not crazy complicated.”

“Wow.” Keith is impressed. “You really _are_ a mastermind.”

I let out a surprised chuckle. He’s bringing _that_ up? “A mastermind? Who gave you _that_ idea?”

“Nobody,” Keith says quickly. “So what’s your weakness?”

“Don’t have one.”

“_Right_,” he says sarcastically. “The greatest brain in the city, and you _don’t have a weakness._”

“But I’m _not_,” I object. “The greatest brain, I mean. I’m good for spur-of-the-moment, situational stuff, but I’m not a genius. It’s intuition. Not intelligence.”

“So you just wing every heist?” Keith asks.

“I try to have a plan beforehand,” I say, a bit indignantly. “I’m not an _idiot_ either.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Then, “What kind of person buys screws from a thief when they can just steal it themselves?”

I shrug. “I don’t question my customers. The less you poke your snoot into their business, the less thugs they’ll send after you.”

“Noted.” Keith sighs. “Are you _done_ yet?”

I find one last chunk of hardware, then turn and toss Keith’s phone to him. He looks surprised as he catches it, like he didn’t actually expect to get it back. Fair point, I guess. That thing holds a lot of the components Pidge needs. But I’m no dirtbag. “Thanks for being patient.” I slide down the mound and pull out my spray paint.

“I’d like to report a theft,” Keith says into the phone. I grin at him and spray my initials onto the ground. “Yeah, it’s Wild Notion, he’s stealing screws from- You know what, never mind. Sorry for wasting your time.”

“Interesting move,” I note as he hangs up.

He makes a face. “It’s not like you’ll be here when they arrive.”

“Maybe you should call the Defenders instead,” I joke.

“No way,” Keith says immediately. “They _would_ get here faster, but then I’d have to explain to-” He stops abruptly, leaving me curious.

“Wait, you know how to contact the Defenders?”

“As if I _wouldn’t_,” Keith mumbles to himself. I don’t think I’m meant to hear it.

“Wow, Mullet, I never pegged you as a Defander,” I say teasingly.

Keith shudders. “Ugh, _no._”

“Same,” I agree.

Keith gives me the side-eye. “Go away right now and I’ll forget to post about this on my blog.”

“You blog?”

“Forget I said that.”

“Oh, are you the Masked Reporter or whoever it is who keeps profiling me?” I ask. “_That’s_ why you wanted to know about my powers, isn’t it!”

“You read Cosmic Super Vision?” Keith demands.

“No,” I say truthfully. “A friend does.”

“Great,” Keith mumbles.

“Why do you call yourself the Masked Reporter?” I ask. “You’re not wearing a mask, and you’re not a reporter.”

“It’s a _pen name_,” Keith snaps. He pockets his phone. “I’m leaving.”

“G’night,” I call over my shoulder as I turn to head in the opposite direction. We’re both going to the same place, but I don’t have to take the conventional way. I’ll be in bed before he’s on campus.

Later, as I let myself into the dorm, I have to wonder. _Should_ I start reading Keith’s blog? And if I do, should it be as Wild Notion, or as Lance?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance would _absolutely_ use Yeet to tease Keith, you can fight me on this
> 
> [Keith's phone](https://res.cloudinary.com/teepublic/image/private/s--_DdjlA_L--/c_crop,x_10,y_10/c_fit,w_704/c_crop,g_north_west,h_1100,w_554,x_76,y_-202/l_upload:v1452885561:production:blanks:gawvl5gka1pqwssxidw5/fl_layer_apply,g_north_west,x_-361,y_-279/b_rgb:c62b29/c_limit,f_jpg,h_630,q_90,w_630/v1559094963/production/designs/4948153_0.jpg)


	18. I Sign Up for a Lot of Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where the story basically transitions into a group chat fic, but it's not permanent, don't worry.

In the end, I compromise.

“Oh, you’re subscribing to Cosmic Super Vision?” Hunk comments as I look up from my laptop.

“Uh, yeah,” I admit. “His articles are pretty interesting.”

Hunk leans in to read over my shoulder. “‘sharpshootermcclain’. My username’s pangourmet.”

“Cool.” I hit enter and wait for it to load. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“I’m leaving,” Pidge calls.

“Where to?” I call back from the bathroom.

“Babysitting gig.”

“Don’t take anything while you’re there,” I remind, although she knows better than to steal while on the job.

“Don’t grow a brain while I’m gone,” Pidge fires back, and then the door closes behind her.

I give her enough time to come back in (she doesn’t) before settling on the couch with my laptop and clicking Create New Account. A few minutes later, I’m browsing Cosmic Super Vision as whatanotion.

The forums are interesting. Under the Sparrow Industries article, I read comments such as

> bestdoggo:
> 
> wn really does sound like the squip what the heck

and

> bowb4thedancingqueen:
> 
> ‘r u a cryptid of sum kind’ lol y wut’s wrong w/ his i’s?

Pidge is right, though. Keith’s blog is loaded with mentions of me. The comments below my profile make it clear that others have noticed too.

> lilbopeep:
> 
> TMR’s fav villain lol

> westwardbound:
> 
> he’s obsessed

> childsplay4adults:
> 
> what a fanboy

That bugs me.

> whatanotion:
> 
> nah he h8s my guts

I go back to browsing. Sometime later, I think to return to my profile and read it through. Keith’s added intuition to my list of powers and removed the work-in-progress notice.

My comment has also caught some attention.

> lost_my_marbles:
> 
> omg hes reading this

> hufflepuffle:
> 
> r u rlly wn tho

I grin and type up an answer.

> whatanotion:
> 
> y wud i pretend 2 b a villain? Also u wud not blieve how stressful it is 2 keep sum1 from jumping off a roof

> day2day:
> 
> guys its him

> mercylessme:
> 
> omg

> whatanotion:
> 
> sad but its tru

> TheMaskedReporter:
> 
> What are you doing on my blog?

> whatanotion:
> 
> chekin things out

> TheMaskedReporter:
> 
> Get off my blog

> whatanotion:
> 
> wow mullet u type like a grandma

> boitoi:
> 
> wild notion calls the masked reporter mullet im wheezing

> TheMaskedReporter:
> 
> Get off my blog

> whatanotion:
> 
> its a free country

> hoppityhip:
> 
> classic enemies to lovers i ship it

> TheMaskedReporter:
> 
> What

> whatanotion:
> 
> wut

> choklit:
> 
> omg yes masked notion ftw

> whatanotion:
> 
> no u dont understand

> TheMaskedReporter:
> 
> We hate each other

> whatanotion:
> 
> ... goshdarn it mullet

> boo:
> 
> tsunderes finishing each other’s sentences i stan <3

> madmetallica:
> 
> #maskednotion

> imagoat:
> 
> #maskednotion

> whatanotion:
> 
> i blame u

> TheMaskedReporter:
> 
> >:(

> flipflopfaceplant:
> 
> #maskednotion

I stare at my screen. I regret this _so much._ Is it even _legal_ to ship people in real life? I mean, _yeah_, Keith’s got a nice face and eyes you could drown in, and he somehow makes that mullet of his work, but I don’t want to _date_ him. That would be like dating an older, more aggressive, male version of Pidge.

_Pidge._

Oh no. Oh no no no. She can_not_ find out about this. I’ll never hear the end of it if she does. Which she will. I’m _so_ screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruh roh


	19. Press F to Laugh at my Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you to take a second before you start reading to imagine Pidge's reaction to finding Lance's blunder on CSV.
> 
> Got it?
> 
> Great, let's go.

> did u put ur name in d goblet of fire

That’s the first thing I read when I get up the morning after the forum disaster. I gulp and type my response.

> im sorry .n.

> u better b

Pidge types back.

> i dont no f i shud scream or laugh

> pls dont do either

> i will do both

> on d 1 hand u have messed up supr bad n were possibly n trouble

> on d other i have never laughed so hard n all my life

> #maskednotion

> not u 2

> u dserve it

I sigh.

> ill make it up 2 u sumhow

> until then can i have a gud morning?

> ok but u still suck rn

> noted

I put Blue away and try to focus on getting ready for my first class.

At one point I hear the door to the left open and close, and my gut feels loaded down with rocks. I can’t imagine how mad Keith must be right now. I want to send him an apology, but if I do it now, I’ll be late, and anyway, I don’t know if private messaging is available on the website. So I leave my laptop closed and head for class.

I skip the beginning of lunch to steal a handful of watches from the jewellery store and let the public see me, then return to the cafeteria and hole up in the corner with my laptop. There I compose and send Keith a private message.

> Hey, Masked Reporter.
> 
> I’m sorry for making that mess on your blog. And for saying I blame you when I don’t. It was a crappy thing to do, and I don’t know how to fix it.
> 
> If there’s anything I can do to make things even a little bit better, please let me know.
> 
> Sorry again.
> 
> Wild Notion

Keith never responds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikies


	20. I Fix my Mistake with Unsolicited Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Maryliz2121, you still afraid?

“One large espresso, no cream, no sugar.”

Keith looks up in confusion. “I… didn’t order this.”

I shrug and sit down. “I know. It’s on the house.”

Keith blinks down at his coffee, then up at me.

“You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” I explain quietly.

He sighs. “It’s that obvious?”

“You don’t even have your laptop with you.”

“You’re a real detective.”

I tap my fingers against the table as he takes a slow sip of his espresso. “What’s going on?”

“It’s stupid,” Keith says.

“Something tells me it’s not,” I comment. “Your face, for example. Want to talk about it?”

Keith groans. “It’s just… Wild Notion found my blog, and the first thing he did was go to his profile and start a conversation with my readers. Now people are saying we make a cute couple, and he blames _me._ He turned my work into a joke. It’s _ruined._”

I wince. “Oof.”

“Ruined,” Keith says sadly.

“Need a fake date to put the rumours to rest?”

Keith looks a bit stunned before he smiles. “Why? You interested?”

I nod solemnly. “Oh, _absolutely._”

We both laugh.

“But seriously,” Keith says. “That’s a really good idea. Thanks, Lance.”

I lean over and pat his shoulder. “Anytime.” Keith looks thoughtful at that, but he doesn’t say a word.

I’m loitering outside the bank when Keith arrives. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.” I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off. “Don’t talk to me,” he says furiously. “Don’t joke, don’t play tricks, don’t steal anything. Just go home and _stay away from Cosmic Super Vision._”

I point at the No Loitering sign above my head. “This is my crime for tonight.”

“Shut. Up.”

“No,” I snap, losing my composure. “I came to talk to you, and I _intend_ to talk to you.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Keith snarls. “Do you have _any_ idea what you did?”

“That’s _why_ I’m here!” I throw my hands up. “I made a mistake, alright? I was trying to set those people straight, and then things blew up in my face. I’m sorry for starting this whole mess, I’m sorry for not trying harder to turn the conversation around, and I’m _sorry_ that we couldn’t work this out like I asked.”

“We never said _anything_ about working things out,” Keith points out angrily.

“In the _email_, you stupid blogger!” I take a deep breath and do my best to calm down. “Sorry about that,” I say when the anger fades. “Sorry about _everything._” Then I walk past him and head for home.

There’s a message waiting for me when I log onto Cosmic Super Vision.

> Wild Notion -
> 
> I’m sorry for blowing up at you just now. I didn’t know you’d messaged me, but that’s no excuse. You only showed up to apologize to me, and I insulted you.
> 
> And really, it wasn’t even entirely your fault. If I hadn’t said anything, things wouldn’t have escalated the way they did. So really, I’m sorry for getting you into this mess too.
> 
> You’re actually not the worst villain I could have been kidnapped by.
> 
> Again, I’m really sorry.
> 
> Keith Kogane (The Masked Reporter)
> 
> P.S. No matter how bad I owe you, I am not going to call myself Mullet.

I smile and type,

> All is forgiven. (But you’re totally a mullet.)

Then I go to my profile. There are a lot more #maskednotion comments, and a couple of users are discussing us as I watch. That’s got to change.

> whatanotion:
> 
> sorry yall but im str8 n single as a pringle

A moment later, another comment pops up:

> TheMaskedReporter:
> 
> And I’m taken.

_That_ gets people talking.

> tonysmywaifu:
> 
> no way

> snips&snails:
> 
> that ship sunk faster than the titanic

> noturaveragepotato:
> 
> too soon lol

> crumpetsandsuffering:
> 
> not dating wn ill believe it when i see it

That’s my que to switch accounts.

> sharpshootermcclain:
> 
> hey back off he’s mine

> day2day:
> 
> tmr’s so??

> sharpshootermcclain:
> 
> yes so stop shipping him with other people

A notification pops up on my screen. I click on it.

> Who are you and what are you doing

> hey Keith

I type back.

> just thought you could use some help with the pretend date thing.

> Lance?

> the one and only.

> Thanks

> Oh and Wild Notion apologized. We're good now. 

> really? no way that’s great! think people aren’t shipping you two anymore?

> I don’t think everyone will stop. But most of them probably will eventually. And it’s not as big a problem for me anymore.

> i’ll try to keep an eye on things

> You’re a life-saver.

> ;)

I go back a page to see that things aren’t quite smoothed over yet.

> instantpudding:
> 
> tmr’s hubby defending his honor!!

> spilleththytea:
> 
> i smell unresolved issues

> riddlemethis:
> 
> if the masked reporter is gay im leaving

> sharpshootermcclain:
> 
> never speak to me or my boyfriend ever again

> TheMaskedReporter:
> 
> I can fight my own battles.

> TheMaskedReporter:
> 
> Never speak to me or my boyfriend ever again

> sharpshootermcclain:
> 
> we’re really heckin gay, homophobe

A notification - Keith has messaged me again.

> Are you okay with pretending to be gay?

> relax. i’m a bi boy. you?

I can _hear_ his voice when I read his response.

> I’m straight as a rainbow.

> good to know

We exchange a few more casual messages and then he logs off. I check on the Wild Notion forum one last time (there’s a Masked Notion/Sharpshooter Reporter ship war going on), then follow Keith’s example. I’m feeling a lot better about this whole thing as I crawl into bed.

Even though classes tomorrow are going to _suck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm shamelessly encouraging #maskednotion and #sharpshooterreporter debates here


	21. My Workload is a Nasty Affair that I Wish Would Go Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the downsides of double lives

I was right. Classes _suck._ And Pidge has a bunch of heists planned for the next few weeks that she says can’t be rescheduled. Only one of them takes place during the day, and it’s wedged between my last class and my evening shift at Kettle Corner.

“Can’t we figure out a better schedule?” I moan. “The workload’s _killing_ me.”

Pidge is unmoved. “You said you’d make it up to me. These parts should do nicely.”

“You’re a monster,” I say, but at the end of the day, she’s right. Working together and separately for a little under two years, we’ve collected most of the parts and tools needed for Operation Iceberg. We can’t let a little thing like my sleep schedule keep us from finishing off the list. So it’s nose to the grindstone for me, while Pidge devotes herself to sneaky little daytime heists, her odd jobs, and the online academic courses she’s taking.

The first couple of heists go okay. Keith and I exchange banter like usual, him doing his best to get me caught, me thwarting his efforts and dodging his more risky questions.

He just keeps finding me in the middle of my crimes. Then again, I admittedly haven’t been putting as much effort into avoiding him as I should be. I _like_ what we’ve got going on: the snappy dialogue, the real-life game of cops-and-robbers, the whole frenemies dynamic.

And every heist Keith catches me in is another day he visits Kettle Corner to write about it. I think we might actually be friends.

As I come in for the dinner rush Sunday evening, Louise pulls me aside, a tray holding soup and coffee in hand. “Your service was requested by one Keith Kogane,” she informs me. “Do you want to take this to him? ’Cause I can man the counter if you do.”

A warm bubbly feeling rises in my stomach. I’ve never been _requested_ before. I carry the meal over to the table and set it in front of Keith. “You’re here early,” I comment.

He smiles. “I wasn’t in the mood for Garrison food today. And anyway, campus WiFi is on the fritz right now. I need to complete this article.” He shows me a half-typed entry on the building supply centre I robbed last night.

“Wow,” I say. “That’s dedication.” Louise waves at me from the counter. “Gotta go. Enjoy your meal!”

As I rush back to my post, I hear him say, “Thanks, you too,” then groan and bang his head against the table.

Heh. Dork.

“Hey, don’t get so close to the screen. You’ll strain your eyes.”

Keith leans back and makes a face at me. “Thanks, _Mom._”

“Just saying.” I shrug. “Glasses are a pain. Not that you wouldn’t _rock_ the thick black frames.”

“Riiight.” Keith is quiet for a moment. “Do you wear glasses?”

“Nah,” I say, holding back a yawn. “I know lots of people who do, though. They’re always slipping down your nose or getting knocked off your face, they need cleaning _always_, and if your prescription changes, tough luck, you need to get a new pair. Not a risk I’d take if I were you.”

“Noted,” Keith says, amused.

He reaches for his previously untouched coffee, and I can’t help but shudder. “_Man_, I wish you could handle cream and sugar. I’ve been _dying_ to make you one of my custom drinks.”

“About that.” Keith rubs his neck sheepishly. “I’m not actually lactose intolerant. I just wasn’t in the mood to be judged for my drink, and after that, I saw no reason to tell you the truth. Sorry.”

I nod slowly. “And the sugar? Can you take sweet stuff?”

“Not _too_ sweet,” Keith says with a shudder.

I clap my hands delightedly. “_Yes!_” He watches in confusion as I snatch his mug from his hands and dance back to the counter.

This is my time to shine! I whip up a latte, then add a shot of dark chocolate and some cayenne pepper, top it with unsweetened whipped cream, and finish with a healthy amount of dark chocolate shavings and a sprinkle of cayenne pepper.

Then I bring it to Keith and sit down to watch, chin in my hands, elbows on the table. He shoots me a puzzled look. “Try it,” I urge.

After a brief hesitation, he lifts the mug to his lips and takes a sip. I don’t breathe until he swallows.

“Well?”

Keith lowers the mug slowly, looks up into my eyes, and says, “Lance, this is possibly the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

“A McClain special, inspired by and brought to life just for you,” I say proudly, grinning as he takes another, longer sip. “I’m thinking of calling it the Night Owl. What do you think?”

Keith puts down the mug. “Forget espressos. I’m ordering McClain specials for the rest of my life.” He has a whipped cream moustache, and his face is so earnest as he says that, I have to smile. A compliment like that invigorates me better than any coffee I can name.

By the sixth - or was it seventh? - heist, I’m drained. I slog through my day, then suit up and head for Pidge’s only day heist. A few people see me make off with the electromagnets Pidge requested, but I’m already out of costume and mingling with the crowd by the time the Defenders show up. I consider hanging around to watch the investigation, but then I remember that this is needlessly risky. Not only could I be identified and arrested, but Keith will be here somewhere too, and I want to keep my two identities as unrelated for him as possible.

“Hey Marcy?” I fiddle with my apron nervously.

Marcy pauses on her way into the kitchen. “Yes, honey? What is it?”

There’s no turning back now. “I was wondering if… if I could have a- a raise?” My voice hitches. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.”

Marcy looks sad. “I’m so sorry, Lance,” she says gently. “I’d give you a raise, gladly. But then I’d have to give everyone else a raise too, and I just don’t have the money for that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say, trying not to let on how miserable this makes me. “I understand.” She pats my arm sympathetically and walks away, and I’m left staring out over the counter, alone.

Keith must have left while we were talking; his seat is empty. I wander over and am about to clear his dishes when I see it. Tucked under the mug are a couple of bills. He’s tipped me twenty dollars.

I’m shaking my spray paint when Keith arrives.

“Mullet.”

“Villain.”

We exchange some banter. I spray my mark, he goes for his phone, and I call a cheerful “See ya later!” as I escape yet again. Same old, same old, but I swear I hear sirens as I make my getaway.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I wasn’t expecting to be _that_ overloaded. Tired, yes, but not like _this._

In hindsight, I should have known better than to believe I’d come out of the last few weeks (paying attention in class, bussing tables, doing homework, committing crime, helping put together Operation Iceberg’s crux, and maintaining my appearance on social media) smiling and smelling like roses. I’ve been doing my level best to pretend I’m full of energy as Wild Notion, but I think it’s only making me _more_ tired. Which is a problem, obviously.

I probably already said that. Ugh, I’m sorry.

At this point, my friends are pretty much the only thing keeping me going. Hunk is convinced I’m coming down with some horrible malady and showers me with homemade food and every kind of comfort he can think of.

“You were scrawny to begin with,” he frets, draping a blanket over my shoulders and setting a plate of fresh-baked biscuits by my hand while I’m trying to do homework. “I _knew_ I should have made you eat more. You’re wasting away...”

“I’m _tired_, not starving,” I try to tell him. But it’s like Hunk doesn’t hear me. It’s a bit <strike>smothering</strike> <strike>embarrassing</strike> <strike>guilt-inducing</strike> tiresome, being mothered like this, but truth be told, I kind of missed having someone worry about me.

Keith, on the other hand, is less frantic, in an awkward but sweet kind of way.

“I think maybe you should take a couple of days off,” he says. “Take some time to recover.”

I wave this away. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ll be fine.”

“Which classes are you taking again?” Keith asks, though I’m pretty sure (maybe sure) I never told him. “They must be _brutal._”

“I’m doing a business major and a culinary minor, with a few extra courses to round it out,” I say. Then I admit, “And maybe a _little._ But it’s probably _your_ fault I’m so tired. I must have caught your insomnia.”

“Ha ha,” Keith grumbles, but he’s smiling. Definitely no excess concern here, although he does give me this quietly worried look whenever I yawn, and every time he visits, he leaves a generous tip. Louise and Marcy have started smirking at me a lot for some reason they refuse to share. I will never understand girls.

Speaking of girls, Pidge is more determined to finish Operation Iceberg than ever. We’re getting close, and it’s become her sole focus in life. She’d be doing every available heist herself if I didn’t persuade her to do the logical thing and get the smaller jobs done while I work on the big ones. And let me handle the scenarios she wouldn’t be as good in. And keep herself well-rested so we have at least _one_ sharp mind between us - the better one, and the one that can guide the other if needed. She’s grumpy about it, or maybe about the fact that _I’m_ the voice of reason here. “But just tell me if it gets to be too much,” she says. “I’ll do it.” It’s a bittersweet offer for me. She’s looking out for me, but she expects me to need her to do my job. You can hear it in her voice, see it in her face.

I tell her that won’t be necessary and make a mental note to prove it.

I’m Wild Notion, after all. I’m unstoppable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you sure, Lance? _Are you sure?_


	22. The Weight of Life’s Problems Catches Up with Me (Also Kittens)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter the cats
> 
> [Can't Help Falling in Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WEW67kEyqVE)

I’m not even sure what day it is today. All I know is that of all the heists Pidge and I have pulled off together, last night’s was the absolute _worst._ Keith was in a chatty mood - and by _chatty_ I mean _loaded with half-baked theories and ideas needing to be recounted_ \- so of course I had to be nice and listen. It was well past two when I heard sirens and took off. I don’t know if they were connected to Keith’s rambling or not. Probably Keith called them, but distracting me turned into an actual, real conversation. He’s a geek like that.

Anyway, today is slow as heck. There’s a grand total of three customers, and it doesn’t look like more will come. I serve Keith his McClain special - a peanut butter mocha with crushed Reece’s Pieces and a drizzle of chocolate on top - and wander over to the enclosure we recently set up in the middle of the less-used part of the café.

Streusel’s kittens are old enough to be around people now, and Marcy thought it would be a good idea to get them used to the café before letting them roam the place freely. Customers are allowed to enter the enclosure to spend time with the kittens, but it’s not meant to be used for meditation, which is exactly what I do now.

I sit down cross-legged and leaning against the cat tree, and close my eyes. Surrounded by the soft quietness of cats (Long John and Chai are in here somewhere along with Streusel and the kittens), I let myself relax. There are a lot of things to stress about, but I push them out of my mind for now. This is my break. I release the tension in my muscles and just breathe.

I’m warm. Not particularly comfortable - there’s a crick in my neck, and something is digging into my shoulder - but warm. I shift a little and try to open my eyes. Part of me doesn’t want to be awake yet. My eyelids keep sliding shut on their own.

“Lance, wake up.” What a nice voice. So soft and warm and gentle, like Abuela’s hot chocolate without the chili powder. I want to do what it says, just because it says so. I manage to lift my head and open my eyes fully.

I’m in the kitten enclosure, half sitting, half lying curled up with my back against the cat tree. Long John is a warm purring ball nestled up against my side, and Keith’s jacket is draped over me like a blanket. Keith himself is kneeling in front of me, face abnormally soft. “Hey,” I mumble. I think I’m smiling. My face is pretty numb from the sleep.

In the semi-dim light, Keith’s cheeks look like they’re turning pink. He looks pretty cute like that. “Sorry for waking you,” he says softly. “It’s five minutes to closing time, and I thought you’d want to be up for that.”

I sit bolt upright. “It’s _what?_”

“Relax,” Keith says quickly. “Nobody came in while you were asleep.” I must still looked panicked, because he adds, “I asked your manager, and she agreed that you should sleep as long as possible. Your pay isn’t getting docked or anything.”

He can read me so well. I relax a bit. Then I realize his jacket - the red and white one he started wearing instead of his hoodie at some point - is still draped over my legs. He put it there. Which means at some point he watched me sleep long enough to decide I needed a blanket.

I should be freaking out about this, but I’m so out of it still that all I do is blush and avert my gaze as I offer Keith his jacket and mumble, “Thanks, Keith.”

“Anytime, Lance.” I look up to see him smile.

_Dang_, he has a nice smile when it’s genuine. I would _pay_ to be smiled at like this everyday. And here he is, doing it for free. That doesn’t seem right somehow. “Wait! I gotta repay you!” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Keith looks so confused, I have to keep going. “For being a gentleman and waking me up,” I say instead of _For smiling like an angel at me._ Way to go, Tired Me!

“What? No, you don’t have to-”

“By introducing you to Kettle Corner’s feline residents!” I announce. It’s honestly the only thing I can think of right now.

Keith blinks. “Uhhh… o...kay?”

I transition myself into a kneeling position and lean in dramatically. “You’ve met the cats Long John, Streusel, and Chai. But never, not until this very moment, have you had the immeasurable pleasure of meeting...” … dramatic pause… “... _the kittens._” I lean back and do jazz hands, the kind where you spread your arms as far as they can go and put your whole body into it.

Keith lets out a startled laugh. “What happened to Sleepy Lance? I thought you were tired.”

“I _am_ tired,” I say. “I’m so tired I’ve gone stupid.”

He laughs again, but it’s more of an understanding chuckle than a sound of unexpected amusement. “Okay, you win. Introduce me to the kittens.”

I clap my hands in that theatrical Delighted British Gentleman kind of way. “But of course!” I point to each kitten as I say its name. “There’s Butter Tart, Pudding, Biscuit, Cream Cheese, and” - I grin - “Espresso.”

Keith blinks and furrows his brow. “The cat’s name is _Cream Cheese?_”

“Don’t make fun of her,” I gasp. “She’s _sensitive_.” I pick up the whitish kitten and cuddle her, pouting.

Keith makes an odd face. I _think_ he’s amused? “Alright, alright. I’m sorry, Cream Cheese.”

“_Thank_ you,” I say.

He wrinkles his nose at me. “You named them, didn’t you.”

“Guilty as charged,” I admit. “And _you’re_ the only person aside from Marcy who knows that. Also the only non-staff person to know their names at all.”

“I’m honoured.” He catches Espresso as the little black kitten scampers past and hugs him gently.

“Wow, Keith,” I tease. “Looks like you have a doppelgänger. What a coincidence his name’s Espresso, huh?”

Keith grins. “Oh look, there’s yours,” he says in mock surprise, pointing at the darker of the two brown kittens. “Pudding, right? Does that mean you’re secretly Harley Quinn?”

“I _can’t_ be,” I say seriously. “I’m Batman.”

Sitting here in the empty café, cuddling kittens and making Batman jokes, Keith’s laugh is the most remarkable sound in the world.

“Lance!” I look up from the textbook I’m doing my best to actually read. “I’m on Cosmic Super Vision for the first time in like, a long time, and I just-” Hunk nearly drops the tablet in his flusteredness. “The Masked Reporter - you and him - are you guys _dating?_”

“No,” I answer. _But I wish we were._

Wait, _what?_

Hunk looks confused. “But it says here-”

“We’re pretending we’re a couple online,” I say absently. “He was getting harassed by people shipping him with Wild Notion, so I offered to help. It’s on the Wild Notion profile.”

Hunk says something back - “Oh, okay” most likely - but I barely hear him. My ears are full of sound. I can’t tell if it’s my heartbeat or that thought playing on a track in my mind: _no, but I wish we were, no, but I wish we were_.

I want to date Keith? Why wasn’t I aware of this? Then again...

I think back to all the times I’ve caught myself looking at him just for the sake of _looking_, all the times I’ve smiled even though nothing was said, all the times I’ve felt warm because of a kind word. My concern when he’s upset.

And then I think about Keith himself: his handsome, pale face, his captivating stormy-ocean eyes, his thick black hair that somehow looks good in a mullet and that I’ve kind of been wanting to play with for awhile now. I think about how his expression can go from grumpy to confused to happy to concerned and so many more so fluidly. I think about how sweet and awkward and funny he is beneath that gruff exterior.

And I finally, finally realize that I have a crush on Keith Kogane, Lance McClain’s dear friend, Wild Notion’s avid pursuer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all called it. And what a crash, eh?


	23. In Which I am a Lovesick Idiot and Pidge Drops a Bombshell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh.
> 
> [I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmo36gnUCWE)

My request is graciously received. Pidge immediately agrees when I ask for a couple of days to recuperate from the late nights. She tells me to take as long as I need to get myself back into shape.

Her motives may be more about getting Operation Iceberg done faster than about my health for all I care. I’m just glad I can get a few full nights of sleep for a bit. And have some time to sort out my feelings.

I think I first started _like_-liking him when he ordered a McClain special from the counter for the first time. I remember putting extra effort into his drink - a black licorice vienna with dark red sprinkles - without knowing why at the time. His face when he tried it and declared it worth the risk probably had a lot to do with my crush taking root.

Thinking back to then - and basically every interaction I’ve had with Keith since - sends me into a complete tizzy. (By tizzy, I mean uncontrollable blushing, a smile probably rating 11.5 on the Goofy spectrum, dreamy sighs, internal screaming, hugging myself; the works.) Obviously, I can’t let my friends witness this: Pidge because she’d be both mad at me for getting distracted, and ready to tease me mercilessly for all eternity; Hunk because he’d ask a ton of awkward questions and then give me knowing looks whenever anything vaguely Keith-related comes up; and Keith himself for obvious reasons such as sorry-I-don’t-feel-the-same-way, our-friendship-is-so-awkward-now, wow-Wild-Notion-looks-like-Lance-blushing-at-me-like-that. Or, if by some miracle he likes me back, Wild-Notion-did-you-just call-me-_lindito_-only-my-boyfriend-calls-me-that. That’s not a risk I can take.

So instead of confiding in anyone, I take long walks by myself, sit on the underside of the dock and daydream, and listen to a playlist of pirated songs like _Do You Want to Know a Secret_ and _Lucky_ on skyscraper roofs. When I go to bed, my thoughts are full of Keith Keith Keith until I fall asleep. It’s a good thing I’m so tired, because I don’t dream, but if I did, I know Keith would be in most of them. Relaxed, happy Keith drinking McClain specials and sharing stories. Sharp, determined Keith insisting the police will catch me even as he gets worked up by witty wordplay. Focused, busy Keith typing, each word a small battle won in the name of supporting his point. Even annoying judgmental Keith, so determined to point out how my life choices are trash, brings a smitten smile to my face. I’m so far gone for this boy it’s not even funny. He’s just so cute and soft and sharp and lovable and...

Please excuse me. I need to go scream.

Anyway. Somehow, I get my raging crush under control for my first heist since the sleeping-on-the-job incident.

“Long time no steal,” Keith greets as I emerge from the store with my pack loaded. His proud smirk as he mentally congratulates himself on this clever line makes me want to cool my face off with a blast from a suitably powerful fire hose.

“Long time no mullet,” I return, somehow not grimacing as my brain immediately starts berating itself for that stupid comeback.

“I will hurt you,” Keith says pleasantly.

“No thank you,” I say equally pleasantly.

He sighs in what sounds more like defeat than disgust. “You’re just going to keep outmanoeuvring me every time we banter, aren’t you.”

“Yup,” I agree cheerfully.

“Funny how a smart person like you can’t keep me from catching you in the act.”

“What can I say, Mullet? I just _really_ enjoy your company.” I put just enough snark into my tone to make him think I’m joking. Bare minimum is pretty much all I can do right now.

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.” He looks at my backpack. “Busy night?”

“Terribly,” I agree.

Keith nods thoughtfully and pulls out his phone. I wait for him to call the police, but instead he says, “So, just out of curiosity, do you pull multiple heists at a time, or is it one business a night?”

“Why do I feel like anything I say can and will be used against me in court?” I ask wryly.

“It won’t be,” Keith says. “When the police nab you, they’ll have all the details from the people you robbed. I’m asking because I want to know.”

I consider this. “I’m guessing you pay attention to the news.” He nods. “So you probably are aware that I _always_ tag completed heists.” Another nod. “How many marks have you ever seen or heard reported on in one day?”

Keith doesn’t answer. He just types something on his phone that is too long to be 9-1-1.

“You’re in a quiet mood today,” I remark. “Should I be worried?” No answer. He’s not even looking at me. “Mullet?”

“Don’t call me that,” he says reflexively.

I huff. “What do you _want_ me to call you? Masked Reporter? Vigilante? Lois Lane?”

His head snaps up. “I’m sorry, _what?_”

“Lois Lane,” I repeat, smirking. “The nosy reporter trying to unmask the dashing stranger.” I wink, even though he can’t see it. “That _is_ why you’re so determined to catch me, right? Because I’ve captured your heart?”

Keith recoils. “I _have_ a boyfriend.”

“Right, sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t realize how that would sound. I meant in a wait-no-he’s-too-much-of-a-friend-to-arrest kind of way.” Stupid, _stupid_ Lance! Joking about dating after the whole Masked Notion debacle? Unacceptable.

“I thought you were straight,” Keith says accusingly.

Crap. “Are you saying I’m gay for making a joke about being friends with you?” I demand. “I’m sorry, I thought I was _more_ than just the guy you love to hate.”

Keith looks taken aback. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can speak, the distant sirens I’ve been hearing for the last few minutes suddenly get a lot louder. And closer. I whirl around to see police cars approaching, too close to have crossed the city during our conversation.

Keith called ahead of time to set a trap.

“I guess I’m not, then,” I say, turning to face him. I’m trying _so_ hard not to look or sound betrayed. I don’t think it’s working. He doesn’t meet my eyes, face full of emotions I don’t have time to decipher.

The first car skids into the parking lot, catching us in its headlights. Time to go.

“Bye, Keith,” I say, and leap up onto the wall.

I’ve climbed almost to the roof by the time an authoritative voice from below me shouts, “Wild Notion! Freeze!”

I pause. Then I make the jump that lands me on the roof. There are more police officers now. One of them fires at me, but I sense it coming and literally dodge the bullet. Must be a rookie.

I’ve already tagged this store, but a narrow getaway deserves a mark. I pull out my paint and spray a big WN into the air, obscuring me from their view, and run.

The police come after me, of course, but they didn’t see which direction I went, and my abilities allow me to go where they can’t. I jump from rooftop to rooftop, scramble down into an underground station, leap through the space between two cars as the train pulls out, spring down dark alleys, take shortcuts through buildings with previously locked doors, and basically make myself incredibly hard to follow, let alone catch.

But a guy can’t run forever.

I reach the docks, duck behind what looks like a small yacht, and use it as cover while I climb down onto the underside of the pier. Then I backtrack to the noisier part of the dock, where any sound I make can be masked, and wait.

The police are above me now. Footsteps pound the wooden surface. Voices shout. They’re searching the boats. I sit perfectly still, barely breathing. All they have to do is think to send someone to check under the dock and I’m caught. Every heartbeat seems as jarring as a cannon blast, every breath like a gale-force wind.

But finally, _finally_, the police leave. I wait until the noise level above my head returns to what it was before, then change into my civilian clothes and transfer my haul and backpack into the second backpack I always carry folded up inside my first. My suit goes in there as well, I sneak out from under the dock, and then it’s off to The Hole to drop it off - after a long, leisurely walk around the city to throw off anyone who might have noticed my strange entrance and decided to follow me. I don’t even stay long enough to greet Pidge. I need to be alone.

> need u @ the hole

“I got your text,” I say, closing the door behind me. “What’s up?”

Pidge turns to face me. Her face is grim. “We need to talk.”

Oh no. I was afraid of this. “What about?”

Pidge frowns harder. “Don’t play dumb, Lance. We both know what this is about.”

“Last night.” But my intuition is sending up warning signals. It’s so much worse than that.

“Last night,” Pidge agrees. “And the nights before last night. I don’t know _exactly_ what your problem is, but you’ve gotten sloppy. Cosmic Super Vision is loaded with information about you. The Defenders have told the press they’re close to bringing you in. Last night, the police _almost did._ This can’t keep happening.”

“I’m sorry, Pidge.”

“_Sorry_ won’t keep you out of jail, Lance.” Pidge gets up from the couch and starts pacing. “You like being known. I get that. You like showing off for Cryptid-Lover, which I _don’t_ get-”

“Hold up,” I interrupt. “What makes you think _Keith_ has anything to do with this?”

Pidge gives me her patented you’re-an-idiot look. “You never call him Towel Head anymore. And don’t think I haven’t noticed your activity on his blog.”

I have no answer to that.

“Lance, you can’t keep letting yourself be seen like this.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“It’s not _just_ about your safety!” Pidge takes a deep breath and stops. I feel an almost overpowering twinge of apprehension before she says in a tight voice, “Look. You’re my _best friend._ But you’re putting Operation Iceberg at risk every time you let Cryptid-Lover catch you in the act. So unless you find a way to stop messing up, I’m going to have to find a new partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to start getting a bit langsty soon, just warning you...


	24. I Do a Good Job of Being a Horrible Person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More langst, + some soft Klance at the beginning
> 
> [Hear Me Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4u44ftysNak)

_Unless you find a way to stop messing up, I’m going to have to find a new partner._

I can’t breathe.

_Find a new partner._

_Stop messing up._

“Lance?” Pidge is watching me. Her eyes are sad but grim and determined, I know it without looking into them. I _can’t_ look into them.

“I… I understand.”

“Good,” Pidge says quietly. “I’ll let you know when and where the next heist is.”

I nod. It’s only after I’ve left The Hole and am walking back to the Garrison that I allow myself to make any noise at all. I duck into the doorway of a condemned building, sit with my back pressed against the wall, and cry until there are no tears left.

“Are you okay?” are the first words out of Keith’s mouth as I set his Night Owl in front of him and drop into the chair opposite his.

“I’m fine,” I sigh, fiddling with the hem of my apron. I need to keep my hands busy or I’ll burst.

“No, you’re _not_.” Keith eyes me with concern. “What’s going on?”

I sigh again. “My partner told me he’s considering finding someone else to work with.”

“Why?” Keith asks.

I stare at my hands for a moment before I can answer. “I’ve been making a lot of dumb mistakes. He says I need to stick to the game plan if I want to be a part of it.”

Keith is silent, thinking. “You’re very invested in this game,” he notes. “What are you working toward?”

“I can’t tell you.” I put a playful note in my voice. “It could jeopardize the entire mission.”

“Gotcha.” Keith takes another sip of his coffee. “And the mission can’t fail, because that would mean your life is over, but you can’t stop playing either, because that would mean you lose everything.”

He’s kind of teasing, but that’s actually pretty accurate description of my life right now, and my throat goes tight. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s about it.”

“Good _grief_, Lance,” Keith says in fond exasperation. He leans over the table and pulls gently at my hands. I realize I have my apron so tightly twisted around them that my fingertips are turning purple. Keith carefully untangles them, then moves his chair next to mine and puts his head in my lap. “If your hands need something to do so badly, it might as well be something that doesn’t hurt you.” He taps my wrist and smiles up at me.

This _is_ hurting me. It’s hurting my heart. Then again, pretending Wild Notion is straight won’t be a problem anymore, so maybe Lance can afford to be more open.

I slowly lower my hands and run my fingers through Keith’s hair. It’s thick and a lot smoother than I thought it would be. And it’s soft. _Dios mio_, where has this been all my life?

“Better?” Keith asks.

I smile. “Better.”

Keith hums in satisfaction and closes his eyes. “So how have classes been?”

“Well, Iverson’s still the _worst_,” I begin. “The other day, he chewed out this tiny little student with pigtails and glasses for this itty bitty mistake she made. And then her partner, who’s like six-foot-are-you-kidding-me and freaking _ripped_ stands up and goes, ‘Sorry sir, that’s on me. I think you should start over.’ And Iverson’s all, _Oh crud, I should probably not repeat all that to this student who is secretly the Hulk._ Not out loud, but it was all over his face. You should have seen it, it was _hilarious._”

Keith’s laughing. It’s impossible to keep from smiling, so I don’t try. Instead, I play with his hair and tell stories, and allow myself to enjoy being a normal teenager.

It’s just before midnight. The hardware store is dark and silent.

I make myself comfortable on the back of the sign and wait.

Maybe a few minutes past twelve, Keith arrives and starts scoping out the store. I watch through a hole in the sign as he swings his flashlight around, searching for me. A half-second before the beam sweeps across the sign, I pull back, and the light doesn’t land on the lens of my mask as it otherwise would have.

“I know you’re there,” Keith calls after some time.

I don’t move. In my head, I shout, _Prove it. I’m calling your bluff._

Silence.

“Come _out_,” Keith shouts. “You can’t hide forever.”

_I don’t have to. All I have to do is outlast you._ It doesn’t matter how stubborn he is; at the end of the day, it’s his own mind he has to fight. Doubt will set in sooner or later, and he’ll feel foolish enough about staying to leave.

So I wait.

Finally, Keith’s sigh echoes through the parking lot, and he melts back into the darkness. I give him five more minutes to truly be gone, and then I climb down from the sign and lock-pick my way into the store. It’s a breeze to locate the rivets and fill my pack, but my heart is heavy. The price for this ease was thirty-four minutes of making Keith doubt himself until he left empty-handed. Worse is the fact that tomorrow, he’ll learn how narrowly he missed me.

I wouldn’t feel so bad if this had been a matter of avoiding him for a heist or two as payback for almost getting me arrested. But this is the beginning of the new normal, and my stomach feels full of stones.

I allow myself to be seen lurking around McCarthy’s Roofing. The next day, the EZ-Buy Pawn Shop reports a break-in.

My initials are on the big window at the front.

Keith never showed up to witness the burglary.

The Defenders chase me away from the Museum of Mechanical Arts. That same day, only hours later, twenty-seven bank accounts lose a small fraction of their holdings. I escape unnoticed once again.

And Keith, who was busy looking for me on the other side of the city, only finds out when it shows up on the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I'm sorry


	25. I Think This is a Bonding Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance uses his ability to heal others, Keith incites the Big Gay, and Pidge is going to be VERY upset if she finds out about this
> 
> [Beautiful Soul](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tFAZ65z86E)

The music is playing just loudly enough that I only realize the door is opening when I turn and catch sight of Keith’s expression going from unobtrusive to deeply mortified.

Then the door slams shut and I’m frantically pulling my pajamas on, face burning with the heat of a thousand suns. The music's no longer playing, because I accidentally knocked my laptop off the bed and I think something’s broken. Hunk can fix it sometime after he gets back from his date with Shay. I’m more concerned with small matters such as relearning how to breathe and _SANTA VACA_ KEITH JUST SAW ME WEARING NOTHING BUT MY UNDERWEAR CODE RED CODE RED OH NO

There’s a timid knock at the door. “Lance?”

I take a deep breath and open the door to see Keith staring resolutely at the floor, his face almost the same colour as his jacket. “I’m decent.” I say. Ugh, voice cracks.

“I’m sorry,” Keith bursts. “I wasn’t sure if you heard me knock, and it wasn’t locked when I tried the knob, and I thought you guys were hanging out or something and it was okay to come in so I did, and I’m really sorry for intruding and-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, holding up my hands to stop him. “Keith, buddy, it’s fine. You just caught me off guard, is all.” It’s not that chill a deal, but that’s my problem, not his. “What’s up?”

Keith lowers his gaze even more, if that’s possible. “I just… I really need to talk to someone right now.”

I nod. “Sure. Want to come in? Or we could go for a walk or something?”

“Yeah.” Keith exhales. “Yeah, a walk sounds great.”

“Cool. Just let me get changed real quick, and then we can go.” I aim my finger guns at him and flash a grin that’s too awkward to be a Han. (It’s really more of a Lance, I guess. Or maybe a Dupain-Cheng.) Then I duck back inside and rush into some public-suitable apparel. Which is literally what I just changed _out_ of, but Keith’s more important than anything I’d planned to do this evening anyway.

Keith is a bit less red when I emerge, which is a relief. We leave the Garrison dorms and walk in companionable silence. I’m not sure where we’re going. But if it helps Keith to wander aimlessly, I’m all for it.

“It’s my thing,” he says without warning. “Cosmic Super Vision. Being the expert in all things superpowered. And now I’m losing that.”

“That sucks,” I sympathize. “You find something that sets you apart, only for it to start fading as soon as someone challenges it, and all the pieces of yourself that you put into it feel hurt and rejected. But at the same time, you don’t feel like you can really talk to anyone about it, because it feels too much like seeking attention. So you just keep quiet about it and try to work through on your own. Right?”

Keith gives me a long, searching look. “It’s like your game,” he says slowly.

I nod. “Back home, I was the only one who qualified to play. It got me… mixed reviews. Some people thought I was destined for greatness. Others said it would ruin my life. I chose to keep playing, and it got me here. It hasn’t been easy, and it isn’t easy right now, but I believe that if I don’t give up, if I keep going and don’t let the obstacles get me down, it’ll be worth the effort.” I gaze off into the air in front of me. This is the truth I must follow.

Keith is silent for a moment. “Is that how you got them?” he asks finally. “Working through your… obstacles?”

I resist the urge to touch them, run my fingers over the ones I can reach. “Some of them. Some of them… Well, let’s just say my welcome to the neighbourhood wasn’t a pleasant one. It’s not really anything to lose sleep over.”

“Alright.” Keith hesitates. “Is that why you never wear short-sleeved shirts? Or roll up your sleeves?”

I look down. Down at my arms, my torso, my legs - all the parts of me that experience has scarred. Accidents on the farm, run-ins with the more violent residents of the Slums, the injuries gained by a rookie villain not quite prepared to escape the police unscathed. They’re all recorded on my skin, pale cicatrices of scar tissue that give the impression I’ve survived a war. They’re what I’ve worked hard to keep from view. “Yes,” I admit.

Keith touches my shoulder gently, where a bullet left a divot instead of a hole. “Why?”

“Some battles aren’t meant to be shared with the world.” Where is all this noble-sounding sentimentality coming from? I take a deep breath and shrug it off. “But enough about me. How can I help _you?_”

“You can’t,” Keith sighs. “Unless you can get Wild Notion to start letting me catch him again.”

Hang on a second. “_Letting_ you catch him?” I repeat. “You think he’s been making it easy for you to find him? On _purpose?_”

Keith nods. “The first couple of times were basically an accident. After that, I did some investigating, found some patterns in his older heists, basically figured out how to track him so I could get him caught. But it never worked. I’d find him, but he’d escape long before I could do anything more than make the call. And then we kind of became friends.”

“Friends?” I echo.

He nods. “It’s weird. Talking to him was like walking on ice in the ditch. You know it’s risky, you can feel the risk in every move you make, but something makes you want to do it anyway.” He groans. “I know it’s his job not to get caught, but I just want him to mess up and start the banter again! Or do _something_ that’ll get me back on his trail! But it’s like we never got to know each other. He’s completely changed his pattern. I can’t locate him _anywhere._”

He’s standing right next to you.

“And it’s hurting your blog?” I guess.

Keith runs a hand through his hair. “Without an inside scoop, I’m basically a freelance reporter. I’m already losing followers. Ever since the big chase-”

“Chase?” I interrupt.

Keith nods. “The last time I saw Wild Notion, I delayed him long enough that the police almost caught him.”

“Maybe he’s mad,” I offer.

“I hope not,” Keith says almost anxiously. “He’s got to know I’m only trying to catch him out of citizen’s duty, right?” He stares at the ground, then continues in a softer voice. “I just… Back when we were still enemies, I did it because I was sure it was the right thing to do. And he seemed like a jerk.” (Um, _rude?_ I _said_ sorry for kidnapping you. But yeah, I was a jerk back, so I guess that’s fair.) “But now that I can’t find him anymore, I’ve realized how much I liked talking to him. I… I _miss_ that villain! Is that weird?”

I have to think about that. “No,” I say at last. “And I’ll bet he misses you too. But I’d be a bit angry at my friend for selling me out too, wouldn’t you? He’s probably off sulking or something.” Keith still looks despondent, so I add, “That’s what villains do, right? They sulk?”

Keith laughs. “This one probably does.”

“Dramatic types _always_ sulk when there’s a problem,” I say wisely.

“So _you_ sulk too, then?” Keith teases.

“What?” I <strike>squawk</strike> exclaim. “I am _not_ dramatic!”

“Right, no, my mistake.”

Keith’s eyes sparkle with held-back laughter as he smiles at me. I can’t believe I ever thought they were just plain grey. I can’t believe I ever looked at this boy and thought, _I can’t wait until he’s gone_. He’s beautiful.

“Thank you, Lance,” Keith says softly, bringing me out of my reverie. “I needed this.”

I smile back at him and nudge his side with my elbow. “Hey. I’m always here for you.”

Ugh, that sounds so sappy out loud. But Keith’s smile grows just a tad deeper. “I know.”

We fall into a peaceful silence. The air feels soft and thick, like that cozy feeling you get when you cuddle up with a blanket and a loved one to read or watch a movie on a rainy day. I’m almost sad when we reach the Garrison campus and make our way to the dorms.

“Well, goodnight,” I say as we come to a stop in front of our doors.

Keith nods. “Goodnight, Lance.” He hesitates, then takes a step closer and hugs me.

I immediately go into Disaster Bi mode.

Why couldn’t my intuition have warned me? At the very least, I could have been prepared to blush my face off and lose the ability to speak coherently.

Somehow, I not only continue breathing, but I hug him back. He smells like worn leather, coffee, and something faintly spicy.

And just like that, it’s over. Keith slips into his dorm and I stumble into mine, feet barely touching the ground.

“You look happy,” Hunk comments as I somehow make it to my bed and pull out my laptop.

“Yeah,” I murmur. My focus is on the screen now.

Pidge will be furious if she finds out I’m doing this, but I have to. It’s almost a physical drive. I log on to Cosmic Super Vision as whatanotion and start typing.

> junkyard @ 11:35 tonight
> 
> this does not go on the blog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "game" is referring to Lance's powers, not his career as Wild Notion, for those who were wondering. (Stealing from chickens and goats isn't very profitable.)
> 
> [Lance's music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_Jd32ygw0Q) (_totally_ not picked because of the singer)


	26. Hunk Reveals the Truth... Just Not the Right One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see what tea Hunk has to spill, shall we?
> 
> [ocean eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-u5gDCNwTiw)

“That looks really good,” Hunk comments, leaning over my shoulder to see what I’m doing.

“Thanks,” I say without looking up. The little stuffed animal I found at the junkyard last night is on the table in front of me. I’ve already washed it thoroughly by hand and removed all the dirty stuffing, and am now in the process of sewing a bit of wire into the tail so it can be posed. It’s a lion, I’ve decided. Fierce and determined, always ready to fight to be heard and respected, but at the same time, an oversized kitty. I’m _not_ telling Keith about this connection when I give it to him.

“What are you going to do about the face?” Hunk asks.

I set down my needle and stretch. “I’m making a new one. And maybe a new tummy. And some embroidery on the tail. I don’t know yet.”

“Wow.” Hunk pokes at the lion and I slap his hand away. “Is it a gift for someone, or did you just feel like restoring a random stuffie you picked up off the street?”

“Gift,” I say.

“Who-”

“Can’t tell you.”

“It’s for Keith, isn’t it,” Hunk guesses.

I choke on air. “What makes you think that?” I say when I can breathe properly.

Hunk shrugs. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve kind of thought you had a thing for him for awhile now.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“He hugged you and you looked like a tomato for the rest of the day,” Hunk points out reasonably.

“Out of _anger_,” I say. They’re the first words that pop into my head, and I once again deeply regret them as soon as they’re out of my mouth. _Nobody_ blushes angrily about being hugged by a friend two hours after said hug occurred. Unless of course, you’re a tsundere in an anime, which I’m not.

“Sure, buddy.” Hunk gives the lion one last interested look, then taps my untouched plate pointedly. “You should eat your lunch. We don’t want a repeat of last time, amirite?”

“I was _sleep_-deprived, not food-deprived,” I say. But I put the lion down and take a bite of my grilled cheese sandwich anyway. When Hunk says _eat_, you eat or he feeds you. (True story, which I am _not_ going to elaborate on.)

Hunk watches me chew and swallow. Then, satisfied that I’m not starving myself, he goes to get his own lunch.

As soon as he’s gone, I drop the sandwich and pick up my needle. There’s a little tear on one of the legs that really needs fixing.

“LANCE!”

“Gah!” I jump, and the needle stabs into my finger instead of the fabric.

“Sorry!” Keith yelps as I hiss in pain and stick my injured finger in my mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, I just wanted to- Wait, what are you doing with a pin?”

“It’s a needle,” I correct, taking advantage of his distraction to slip the junkyard lion into my pocket. “And I’m sewing. That’s usually what people do with needles.”

Keith chuckles in an overly excited but oddly spacey way, like he’s got something way bigger and better on his mind. I stop and take a closer look at him. He’s _vibrating._ “_Someone’s_ got the jitters. Have too many coffees at Kettle Corner?” I comment teasingly.

Keith shakes his head with abnormally comical sincerity. “Of course not! You would’t have been there.” He blinks, looking unexpectedly flustered. “A-and nobody else makes coffee as good as you,” he adds quickly.

I feel a goofy smile coming on and quickly turn it into the kind of grin Jack Frost gave Bunny after pretending to fall off North’s sleigh. “Awww, Keith, that’s so _sweeet_,” I coo.

“I only come for the McClain specials,” Keith insist.

“_I’m_ a McClain special, sure you’re not coming for _me?_”

It’s now that I come to my senses and realize I just flirted with my crush. By comparing myself to coffee. My cheeks immediately flame with the intensity of a welding torch at this realization. Keith is also pink. We both find incredibly fascinating spots around the cafeteria to examine.

Finally, the silence gets too awkward for me, and I say, “So anyway-” just as Keith blurts, “How’s your finger?” We blink at each other. Then I say, “I’m okay,” and gesture at the table. “Take a seat,” I offer. Keith sits down in the chair opposite mine, but his jittering doesn’t stop. He taps his fingers on the table, and his knee bounces with hummingbird speed. I’m seriously starting to doubt he hasn’t had any coffee yet today. “Okay, what’s up?” I ask. “What’s got you so hyper?”

“I’m not hyper,” Keith says, now bouncing both knees. His hair is sticking out at odd angles.

I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, Samurai.” Without thinking, I stand and lean over the table. “Here.” I tidy his hair, smoothing the ruffled strands and tucking them behind his ear. Then, suddenly aware of what I’m doing, I quickly pull my hands back and sit down.

“Thanks,” Keith says. His cheeks are pinker than before, but he’s smiling. I guess whatever’s got him so excited must be more important than me embarrassing myself.

“So…?” I prompt.

“You were right!” Keith bursts. “But also wrong! He was a little bit upset, but he mostly didn’t let me find him because the police were a problem for him. He doesn’t blame me for almost getting him arrested!”

“That’s great,” I exclaim. “So you’re back to catching him in the act?”

“Nope.” Keith pops the p. “He said I won’t be interrupting his heists anymore. But we’re keeping in touch!”

“How?” I ask, thinking of the email I sent him right before lunch.

Keith shakes his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“Boo,” I say with a smile.

Keith makes a face, but his smile reappears in the next instant. “I really think we’re back to being frenemies.”

“That’s good.”

“It _is!_” Keith actually beams at me. “Thank you so much for being there for me. It really helped.” Just like that, his bounciness melts away, leaving him looking happy, but nervous somehow. He hesitates, then says in a softer voice, “Lance, I was thinking, and-”

“Oh, hey Keith.” Hunk is standing in front of us, a loaded tray in his hands. Keith clams up. “Am I interrupting something?” Hunk asks.

“Uh…” I look at Keith, who’s blushing for some reason.

“We’ll talk later,” he says, standing up. He touches my shoulder and smiles. “See you, Lance.” A civil nod to Hunk and he’s gone.

I watch his mullet disappear into the crowd, then turn to see Hunk smirking at me. “_What?_” I demand.

Hunk grins. “Oh, nothing.” He sits down in Keith’s spot and picks up his sandwich. “You and Keith looked like you were enjoying yourselves.”

“Yeah, so?” I can’t help that defensive tone.

“Just saying.” Hunk shrugs and takes a bite. “Wha’ weh oo goys tokking a-owt?” he asks with his mouth full.

I wrinkle my nose. “Hunk, that’s gross.”

“Sorry,” Hunk mumbles. He swallows, then repeats, “What were you talking about?”

“That’s confidential.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Hunk takes another bite, chews, and swallows. “You’re all red again,” he comments.

“Am _not!_”

“Lance.”

“Okay _fine_,” I grumble. “I have a big gay crush on Keith Kogane. Happy now?”

Hunk drops his sandwich and pumps his fist. “I _knew_ it!”

“Keep it down,” I hiss, casting a nervous look around the cafeteria in case Keith is still around. My intuition isn’t telling me anything, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t there. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from our game of cops-and-robbers, it’s that Keith is strangely hard for my intuition to pick up on.

“I _knew_ it,” Hunk repeats in a quieter voice. “You’re _so_ smitten.”

I put my head down on the table and groan into the wood.

“Lance, buddy. That thing’s covered in germs. I wouldn’t put my face on it.”

I lift my arm and point at the ceiling. “Let me dissolve into the void of eternal embarrassment and suffering in peace, Hunk. It’s the least you can do.”

“Lance Alejando McClain, you are one of the most overdramatic people I’ve ever met,” Hunk says in exasperation.

I lift my head and give him a disbelieving look. “_Alejandro?_”

Hunk shrugs. “You never told me your middle name.”

“But _Alejandro?_” I say again. “_Really?_” He doesn’t answer. I sigh. “Who’s the _most_ dramatic?”

Hunk looks alarmed. I’m hit by a flash of insight that makes me want to groan and bury my face in my hands. He can’t tell me who hit is because it’s someone only a Defender would know. And neither of the other Defenders is known for being overly dramatic, so that means he must be thinking of a villain. From there, it’s not hard to figure out which one. I’ve made Hunk’s list _twice._ Ugh.

“Okay, it’s just you,” Hunk admits. He doesn’t know how accurate that ‘falsehood’ is.

I groan out loud. “Thanks, that’s really reassuring.”

Hunk pats my shoulder comfortingly, nearly knocking me off my chair. “I love you anyway.” He grins broadly. “But I’m _totally_ going to tease you about your adorable crush.”

“Huuunk!”

“Payback for all that teasing about me and Shay,” Hunk says unrepentantly. “Ooh, after you win Keith’s heart with your pocket kitty, we can go on double dates!”

“I haven’t even _met_ Shay,” I remind.

Hunk smiles dreamily. “She is the absolute best. And she agrees that you two would make an insanely cute couple.”

“She’s never met us!”

“We’ve talked.”

“Unbelievable.”

Hunk ends this storm of merciless teasing to finish his sandwich and start on the soup he also got. I nibble on my own sandwich.

“Oh, and we decided on your couple name.”

“_What?_”

“You guys are Klance now.”

“_HUNK._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this one.


	27. Cryptids and Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu

> TO: nightowlsquared@gmail.com
> 
> FROM: ghostgirl287@gmail.com
> 
> SUBJECT: Save the Date
> 
> To whom it may concern,
> 
> You are invited to attend a LNCARS get together at the CCCU at twelve tomorrow. Food will be provided; all you are required to bring is yourself.
> 
> Please keep in mind that this will be an electronic-free gathering. Any and all cellphones used while attending will be confiscated.
> 
> We look forward to seeing you,
> 
> Winona Norris
> 
> Head of the LNCARS
> 
> Sent from my iPhone

“What the heck is LNCARS?” Keith asks.

I grin at him. “Late Night Cops And Robbers Society.”

Keith considers this for a moment. “And why are we using this weird code?”

“They’re watching me,” I explain.

“Okaaay…” Keith eyes my backpack. “How much did you get?”

“Can’t tell you,” I remind.

Keith crosses his arms and frowns. “So as of tonight, a bunch of innocent people are broke.”

“You know me better than _that_, Mullet,” I gasp. “I merely skimmed a couple of twenties from the fullest boxes. And I’m not convinced all of them are _innocent_.”__

“You’re a real Robin Hood,” Keith says dryly.

“I _am._”

Keith puts his hands on his hips. “Didn’t you say food would be provided?”

In answer, I pull a box of Ritz crackers out of my backpack and toss it to him. “_Buen provecho._”

“Wow, fancy.” He squints at the box. “Stolen?”

“Bought. I’m not a _complete _savage.”

“Riiight. Hey, by the way.” Keith pulls out a big worn-looking book and his flashlight and begins flipping pages. “I haven’t gotten an answer about this, and it’s been bugging me.”

I tilt my head to get a good look at the cover of the book. Oh _Dios._ “Is that a _bestiary?_”

“Are you a cryptid or not?” Keith demands instead of answering.

“You’re obsessed.”

“I prefer _intrepid._”

“A rose by any other name is still a cliché thorn-covered fever dream of perfumists and inexperienced actresses alike.”

Keith huffs in amusement. “I take it you don’t like roses.”

“They’re okay,” I say. “I just, I don’t know, resent how overused they are. What’s wrong with other flowers?” I shrug. “Personally, I’d rather get flowers with _meaning._ Like, primroses for forever love, agrimonies for thankfulness. Dandelions for getting through hard times. Yeah, roses have meanings too, but they’re used so often for occasions that don’t match that they’ve kind of lost all that.” I realize I’ve gone off on a spiel and shoot Keith an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Keith smiles. “You’re poetic for a petty crook.”

“Uh… thanks?”

“But seriously,” Keith says, suddenly all business. “What exactly _are_ you?”

“I-” I begin.

He cuts me off. “I thought you might be a kind of urban breed of Rake, maybe that evolved to appear and act more human. But you haven’t shown any interest in attacking humans, so that’s probably it. I also considered vampires, but the no-hurt policy went against that, too. You could also be a smaller, blue-eyed subspecies of Orange Eyes - a Blue Eyes? But the last Orange Eyes sighting was in Ohio over twenty years ago. My other theory was that you’re some kind of changeling. It would explain your humanoid appearance and vocabulary, but I think the abilities are a bit off. Still, it’s not an illogical idea. I’m just not sure if changelings are actually cryptids or not. Oh, are you a Mothman?”

“Yeah,” I say sarcastically once I’ve digested all that. “_Obviously_, I am a Mothman. Who _else_ has these magnificent _wings_ and _antenna_?”

Keith sighs. “I know, I know. Stupid guess.”

“Uh huh,” I say emphatically.

“Cut me some slack,” Keith complains. “I’ve scoured my resources for mentions of a nocturnal wall-crawling humanoid with reflective blue eyes and the power of speech, and nothing came up.”

“That’s because _I’m not a cryptid._”

Keith frowns. “But-”

“The Defenders have powers,” I interrupt. “Does that make _them_ cryptids? Mechaforge is indestructible, does he have stone skin that he paints to look normal? Does Lady Light keep her feathers plucked so people don’t realize she has wings? And what about the Dark Knight? Does he eat cats and skulk in the shadows, staring at passersby?”

“_No!_” Keith sounds disgusted, almost offended.

“So what makes you think _I’m_ a cryptid and _they’re_ not?” I challenge.

“The glowing eyes,” Keith says.

I can’t help but laugh. “_That’s_ all that you’re basing the ‘he’s a cryptid’ theory on? What about _Lady Light’s_ glowy eyes?”

Keith sighs again. “Alright, alright. Point proven.” He pauses. “But if you _were_ a cryptid, what would you be?”

I consider. “Probably a changeling, or a Blue Eyes or whatever you called that other one. And you’d be a vampire, ’cause you’re pale, wear lots of black and red, and come out at night.”

A pause.

“How do you know I wear red?” Keith says slowly. “I only ever wear black while on the job.”

_Crap._ I’ve seen you during the day a few times,” I hedge. “You’re a Garrison student, right?”

“Have you been _following_ me?” Keith demands.

I raise my hands in defense. “No! Why would I? I just pass by the Garrison from time to time, and I sometimes see you coming or going.” Keith doesn’t say anything, so I follow my gut instinct and say, “What’s it like, anyway? Being done with school but still in class?”

“Dull,” Keith says immediately. “My family thinks it’s best to have a solid degree or two under my belt when I shoot for professional journalism, but it feels so _pointless._ And they’re always checking in to make sure I don’t skip any classes.”

“You’re lucky,” I say. “It sounds like your family cares about your ambitions.”

Keith frowns. “Doesn’t yours?”

I shrug in what I desperately hope is a flippant way. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it? Hey, what does your boyfriend think about the college-before-job thing?”

“My-” Keith goes suddenly, violently red. “What do you mean, my _boyfriend?_”

I feign confusion. “That archer guy or whatever? McKane... something? I thought you two were, you know, a _thing._”

“Oh,” Keith says shakily. “_Him._ Yeah, we haven’t really talked about it.”

_Awkward, awkward, awkward._

“I should probably go,” I say. “Big day of crime ahead, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Keith says, shaking himself out of it. “Will… uh… Will I...”

“Yes, you can document this heist on your blog. And yeah, you might get more emails. Provided the police don’t hear about it, of course.” I flash a Charmer complete with wink and finger gun.

Keith nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Great,” I say. “_Adios_, Mullet.”

As I take off, Keith calls, “See you later… Winona.” I don’t have to look back to know he’s smirking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only realized WInona NOrris has the same first two letters as WIld NOtion after I chose it lol


	28. My Life Takes an Unexpected Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *author squealing*
> 
> [Fade Into You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTWGgXvJZl0)

Marcy tells me the bad news when I walk in Thursday morning. “Frankie’s home sick with the flu.”

“Can Paul fill in for them?” I ask.

Marcy shakes her head sadly. “He’s already on his flight to New Jersey. And Louise has her other job to deal with.” She puts a hand on my arm and looks up at me beseechingly. “Do you think you could handle taking on Frankie’s job, just for today?”

Everyone at Kettle Corner knows that while Marcy handles the paperwork, it’s a group effort between the staff that basically keeps the place running. Now that duty’s resting on my shoulders alone, on an inservice day. Kettle Corner is going to be _hopping._

But one look at Marcy - plump, coffee-skinned Marcy with her smoke-grey hair in a poofy bun, looking soft and sweet in an old-fashioned lilac dress and her Kettle Corner apron - looking into those deep brown eyes has my ability to say no crumbling like ancient saltine crackers. “Anything for you, Marcy,” I find myself saying.

Marcy radiates relief and gratitude at my words. “Thank you so much, baby.” She pats my arm. “I knew I could count on you.”

What else can I do? I don a hairnet, fit my cap over that, and get ready for an absolutely grueling day.

My dread is not unfounded. The bell over the door seems to jingle at least once every five minutes. I’m literally kept on my toes by the doubled duties. Counter, kitchen, counter, kitchen. It’s a vicious cycle, and I’m not sure how I manage to keep the counter stocked and the customers from getting too impatient.

The rush isn’t even over by the time evening rolls around, which is when the café is usually empty save for the handful of quiet-seekers who like to come in and have a bite while they work or read. Keith is one of them.

He’s at his usual spot when I see him, gazing absently at a vase of flowers someone must have left on the table at some point. They don’t match at all, but it’s still a touching arrangement. I wonder if he knows they mean friendship, hope, beauty unknown to the beholder, and love.

“English-style scone and a Twilight Swirl,” I announce, setting his order in front of him.

Keith looks with interest at his coffee - a Venice-style McClain special with a shot of vanilla and just a bit of blueberry and lavender swirled in with the cream - then smiles up at me a bit nervously. “Do you think we could have that talk now?”

The counter bell dings. I shake my head and hurry back to my post, calling a hasty, “Sorry, we’re understaffed right now, can’t talk,” over my shoulder.

He hangs around for the remainder of my shift, which is nice.

“Thank you so much, Lance,” Marcy says as I pull off my hairnet and swipe my sleeve across my sweaty forehead. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your willingness to take so much responsibility at the last moment.”

“No problem.” Now would be a good time for the Han, but all I can muster is a tired smile.

Marcy pulls her notebook out of her apron pocket and, licking her thumb, flips to the next blank page. “I think you’ve earned both of today’s salaries.”

That’s twice the money I normally get. Pidge will be so pleased. “Thanks, but I think Frankie should still get their pay,” I say.

Marcy pauses, pen just touching the paper. “I’m sorry?”

“Give Frankie the cook’s money,” I repeat. “They’d’ve done the work if they could have.”

“That’s very unselfish of you, Lance,” Marcy says warmly. She writes down two separate sums, then closes the book and smiles at me. “Go have fun with your friend. I’ll clean up.”

“Thanks, Marcy.” On impulse, I give her a quick hug and head over to where Keith is decidedly _not_ watching. “Hey,” I greet. “Thanks for being patient. I really appreciate it.”

Keith smiles. “You’re worth the wait.”

Que the flushing cheeks. Different topic! I turn my attention to the vase of flowers. There are four tulips (pink, yellow, orange, variegated) and two carnations (white and green), as well as a gardenia, a lily of the valley, a delphinium, a Linaria bipartita, an elderflower, a sunflower, a red daisy, a gladiolus, a daffodil, a snowdrop, a dandelion, an eglantine rose, and even a sprig of asparagus foliage. Altogether, it looks less “deliberate arrangement” and more “I couldn’t decide what kind of flower to get so I got them all”, but it’s still pretty neat. “Nice flowers,” I comment. “It’s cool that someone took the time to decorate for their meal. Unless it’s some kind of dumb Instagram ploy or something.”

“I don’t think they’re there for an Instagram post.”

“Why not?”

Keith shrugs. “They have your name on them, for one thing.”

My pulse lurches, then starts doing double time. “Th- they do?” I pick up the vase and turn it in my hands. There, hanging from the red daisy’s stem - a tag with my name handprinted on it.

“I can’t believe it,” I murmur. “I… This has never happened to me before.”

Keith gives me a bemused look. “Really?” I shake my head. “Huh,” he says as I run my finger along the daffodil’s petals and then bow my head to smell them. “I would have thought you’d be used to having admirers.”

My cheeks heat up all over again. I peek up at him. He looks nervous, but he’s smiling.

Beyond him, Marcy is watching shamelessly from the counter.

“We should go,” I blurt.

Keith blinks, then turns to see what’s caught my attention. His cheeks flush. “Right with you,” he agrees hastily.

I grab my jacket and we make a slightly less than dignified exit. Once we’ve put a few blocks between ourselves and Kettle Corner, we stop.

“I don’t think I’ve ever run from an old lady like that,” Keith comments as we both catch our breath.

“Oh, really?” I say, leaning against a lamppost. “Then you’ve been missing out, my friend. Being nonphysically, nonverbally awkwarded out of the room by elderly women is something I’m very familiar with. You haven’t lived until you’ve had the experience.”

Keith laughs breathlessly.

I allow myself the guilty pleasure of taking him in with my eyes while he’s not looking. He’s flushed from running, and his cheeks are scrunched in that cute way they do when he can’t help laughing. All of a sudden, I can picture him sitting around the dinner table with his family, sharing stories about the day as he passes the potatoes to his dad. The image is a happy one, but it brings a surge of nostalgia and homesickness in its wake. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to take deep, inconspicuous breaths.

“Hey.” Keith places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

_A lot._ “Nothing,” I manage. “Just… just a memory. It’s nothing.”

Keith doesn’t press me. He pulls me closer, gently. “C’mere.” With his arms around me like a security blanket, I can’t find the will to hold back anymore. The tears fall freely, soaking Keith’s jacket.

At last, I get myself under control. “Thanks, Keith,” I mumble, stepping back.

He lets me. “You’re having a rough time of it, aren’t you,” he says softly.

I sniffle. “It’s just… Sometimes you remember something you can never go back to and it hurts, you know? Especially when you thought you’d buried it where it could never come back to hurt you?”

Keith is watching me in concern. His expression also holds a certain blend of respect, understanding - and wonder. He’s felt the same thing, but I’ve put it into words for him.

I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes. “So. What did you want to talk about?”

“Well…” Keith fidgets, but he doesn’t look away from my face. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and… Lance, you mean a lot to me. You’re kind and thoughtful and funny and smart, and just being around you brightens up my whole day - and you don’t even seem to realize it. With you, I feel like I always have a shoulder to cry on or someone to tell things I couldn’t even tell my parents. It’s the highlight of my day to walk into the café knowing you have a new coffee idea or a unique opinion or a story you’re ready to share with me. Lance, you bring out the best in me, even when I’m at my worst. You’re always getting me to try new things, you make me laugh when I thought I couldn’t, and you’re the only person I feel completely myself around no matter what. And I think… I _want_...”

My breath catches as Keith takes my hand and looks deep into my eyes.

“I want you to meet Shiro.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I strongly recommend taking a look at [this article](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plant_symbolism) to learn more about Lance's flowers :)


	29. THIS IS NOT HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scandalous confession: Keith does _not_ in fact have a motorcycle.
> 
> [Am I Wrong](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oUPGbRazaA)

“Are you okay?”

I lift my head and give Hunk a puzzled look. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been screaming into your pillow for nineteen minutes now.” Hunk shrugs. “I thought at the very least you’d be out of breath.”

“I’m fine,” I say, letting my face hit the pillow again. Truth be told, I’m winded. My pride just won’t let me admit it.

“Now that you’re not screaming anymore, think you could tell me what’s going on?” Hunk says.

I consider not telling him, but ultimately decide against it. He’ll find out eventually anyway. I might as well beat circumstance to the punch and get a confidante out of the bargain. “Keith’s driving me _loco_,” I start, rolling over and sitting up.

“Trouble in paradise?” Hunk asks sympathetically.

“No,” I moan. “It’s the opposite. And that’s the problem! I don’t know if it’s the whole adopted thing, or if he’s just never had friends before, because he is _clueless_ about friendship. He keeps doing these sweet, adorable boyfriend-y things. But whenever he talks about our relationship, he says we’re friends. And he isn’t interested in going on dates, and one time I joked that people must think we’re a couple because he’s been coming really often and I stop to talk to him every time, and he got really embarrassed and was all ‘that’s so crazy ha ha imagine being paired with your best friend’. This is the _same guy_ who lets me play with his hair, gets excited about my coffee experiments, and brought me flowers. How oblivious can he _be?_”

“Yeah, oblivious,” Hunk agrees in a weirdly sarcastic voice, smiling kind of smirkily.

“We’re so close to dating that it’s breaking my heart,” I say. “But he insists that we’re just friends. And now he’s taking me to meet his brother tomorrow!” I fall backward in a dramatic heap. “It’s too much. My poor bi heart is going to die at the hands of the demon called Repetitive Friendzoning.”

“That’s rough, buddy.”

“Don’t you quote _Avatar_ while laughing at me, Hunk. The immortal words of my beloved fire prince were not meant to be used like this.”

“Do you like Zuko because he reminds of of Keith, or Keith because he reminds you of Zuko?”

I sputter.

“Thought so.” Hunk is triumphant. “You’ve got a type.”

“I didn’t even _notice_ the similarities,” I moan.

Hunk shakes his head sympathetically. “Like I said, rough. When are you meeting Keith’s relatives again?”

“Just his brother,” I correct, sitting up. “And we’re going tomorrow at two. I’m _already_ nervous.”

“You’ll be fine,” Hunk says confidently. “If you can win over _Keith_ in two meetings, Shiro will be a pushover.”

“You know him?”

“I’ve seen him around.” Hunk becomes very interested in a loose thread on his quilt. I take that to mean _Mechaforge_ is the one who knows Shiro, probably from a rescue. If Shiro is anything like his kid brother (and from what Keith’s told me, he is), he’ll have gotten himself into at least one Defenders-worthy situation.

I run a hand through my hair and get out of bed. “I’m going to go change.”

“Why don’t you ever change in here?” Hunk asks as I search my bed for my pajamas. “I never pegged you as a shy guy.”

I freeze. My default response to that is to use a vague “I just don’t like people seeing me without my clothes on,” but this time feels different. My intuition says making Hunk an exception will turn out okay. Maybe he’ll find out on his own if I don’t take this risk, and get suspicious.

Moving slowly, I remove my shirt and turn to put it in my dresser. There’s a quiet but sharp intake of breath behind me. I don’t look up as I pull on my pajama shirt, then take off my jeans and reach for my pajama pants.

It’s only when all my scars are covered and I’m sitting on my bed once more that Hunk speaks. His voice is quiet when he says, “Lance, are… are your parents abusive?”

I’m a bit surprised by that assumption, but not terribly. “No. They weren’t.” Not really, anyway. Unless you count our last conversation, which I don’t.

Hunk hesitates. “Would you be okay with telling me how you got all… those?”

“Well, I grew up on a farm,” I say. “That’s a lot of them down right there. Machinery accidents, run-ins with barbed wire, Señor Odia Tripas...”

“Who?”

“The turkey,” I explain. “The rest, well, are city scars.”

“City-” Hunk frowns. “Where did you say you lived before moving here?”

I specifically avoided talking about this with you, Hunk. “A rougher area,” I say vaguely.

Hunk looks unconvinced. And who can blame him? I’m explaining away a minefield of scars with “I lived in a rougher area”.

“Hunk,” I say solemnly, “I swear I’m telling the truth. There’s nothing shameful about my scars. I just think they’re ugly.”

He looks into my eyes, and something he finds there convinces him. He nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I repeat. Then we both yawn, and I say, “Well, I should probably get some sleep so Shiro doesn’t think I’m a zombie tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” Hunk grunts. “G’night.” And the light goes out.

But I lie awake for what feels like a long time, thinking about how while none of my scars are from an abusive family, they are all still something I’m ashamed of. I’ve done nothing to deserve the appearance of a hero or a victim.

No matter how altruistic my ambitions, I am and always will be the villain.

“Hey,” Keith greets when I meet him by the Kerberos monument in front of the main doors.

“Hey,” I respond. “So how are we going? Walking? The underground? Your motorcycle?”

Keith makes a face. “I don’t have a motorcycle.”

“Really?” I say in surprise. “How do you have a butterfly knife but not a motorcycle?”

”How do you have a laptop but not a phone?” Keith returns. “Same answer - I don’t need one. Although you really _should_ get a real phone,” he adds.

I laugh. “Wow, convincing argument. But seriously, is it far, or are we-”

“We’re taking my bike,” Keith says, wheeling a black electric bike out from behind the statue of the famed Kerberos shuttle. The thing has red streaks painted along the frame and is outfitted with a basket, a holster on either side of the frame, and a rack.

“Are you serious?” I eye the bike. “We’re not both going to fit on that thing.”

Keith removes the rack and replaces it with a seat that looks like one of those chairs from elementary school, minus the holes in the back and the legs. “You sure about that?” He produces two helmets - where does he _keep_ all this stuff? - and hands me one before putting on his own and getting on the bike.

I follow his example reluctantly. “Is this safe?” I ask, wrapping my arms loosely around his torso.

Keith’s response is to toss a grinning “Hold on!” over his shoulder and take off.

My arms tighten instinctively, which is probably the only reason I’m not rolling to a stop on the pavement twenty feet behind the bike. Once I’ve gotten past the moment of fear accompanying this realization, however, I’m thrilled by the ride.

Sure, I’ve ridden a bike before (two years ago), and I’ve taken the bus and the underground innumerable times since then, but I’ve never experienced this kind of fast-paced freedom - at least, not as Lance. The bike purrs nearly soundlessly as Keith navigates streets and executes flawless turns with expert ease. The wind in my face is exhilarating. My arms around Keith’s middle are grounding. I let out an excited whoop as Keith speeds up, whizzing past a swarm of tourists before turning a hairpin corner.

At last, we come to a stop in front of a complex in what we in the Slums call Uptown. The place is all spotless white paint, polished golden metal, and pristine grass, but I barely notice. “Keith,” I say breathlessly, “that’s the most fun I’ve had since my sister and I raced greased cookie sheets down Monte Hill.”

Keith pulls off his helmet and shakes out his hair. “You should try parkour sometime.” His eyes are bright, and he’s kind of laughing as he says it.

I find myself saying, “Yeah, maybe,” even though I could probably _teach_ a parkour class myself.

Keith parks the bike in a stand at the door, we go in, and he leads me to an elevator. The muzak is that crappy posh stuff you hear in movies. “You’d think a swanky place like this could afford some better tunes,” I comment.

“And go against tradition?” Keith gasps. “Perish the thought!”

We both laugh, and we’re still laughing as we leave the elevator on the sixth floor and find a door with fancy Roman numerals on it. I feel a twinge as Keith knocks. It’s probably from all the laughing I’ve done today, so I ignore it.

A moment or two after Keith lowers his arm, the door opens to reveal a handsome, broad-shouldered young man with a scar across the bridge of his nose and black and white hair in an undercut. I’m immediately alarmed, and not just because he’s taller than me. “You’re here early,” he says warmly to Keith. “And you must be Lance.” He turns to me, and in the moment that follows, I know _exactly_ how screwed I am.

Takashi Shirogane, Keith’s adoptive brother and mentor, is the Dark Knight.

And he recognizes me.


	30. The Tall Dark and Handsome Ninja Doesn't Like Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *singing*  
I am afraaaaaid  
I am very afraaaaaid  
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

The Dark Knight’s eyes go from friendly to stunned to wary as he identifies me as notorious villain Wild Notion, but he smiles convincingly and extends a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I say, using every iota of my acting skill to seem nonplussed as I shake the hand of the enemy. It’s his shadow hand - the one he can form into various close-range weapons at will. I can feel the cool, oddly fluid metal through the skin-tone glove he’s wearing to disguise it.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Shiro says. “Come on in.” He holds the door open for us to enter. I know without looking that he’s watching me carefully and will continue to do so as long as I’m here. _Relax_, I think. _I’m not going to take anything, big guy. I’m more worried about leaving here a free_ hombre.

Even though it’s a _really_ nice place. Shiro’s home is more of a one-storey house than a condo, with dark marble countertops and a floor of smoke-grey tiles, both of which are a nice contrast to the white walls and ambient lighting. The sitting area we are escorted to is tastefully decorated with an indigo rug and a couch set the colour of charcoal. There’s a flat screen tv and a gaming system, and a couple of photos on the mantle. One is a picture of Shiro posing with the Dark Knight - Photoshopped, obviously. A few subtle details have been changed so Dark Knight appears less Shiro-esque.

“Can I get you anything?” Shiro asks. “Coffee, tea…?”

“Water’s fine,” I say, while Keith shakes his head.

“I’ve been ruined for coffee,” he says.

“No coffee? What have you done to my brother?” Shiro’s voice is light and jokey, but his eyes say _I can and will take you down the second you give me one more reason to harm you._

“He introduced me to the glory known as the McClain special,” Keith answers for me. I successfully hold back a wince brought on by my surname being revealed to my most dangerous enemy so airily. “I can no longer tolerate the mediocrity of the lowly bean juice you call coffee.”

“I see.” Shiro appears amused. He walks over to the kitchen and gets a pitcher out of the fridge. “Keith tells me you work at a café. Do you enjoy your job?”

“It’s great,” I say. “My manager’s a literal angel, the other staff are great, and I really enjoy serving our customers. It’s sometimes really stressful when there are lots of people and they’re all in a rush, but for the most part, I love working there.”

“He wants to run his own restaurant when he graduates,” Keith puts in.

“Really.” Shiro hands me a glass and sits down, still looking at me with interest.

I nod. “Kettle Corner is awesome, but I want to be the manager of my own place someday. My roommate has already agreed to be in charge of the kitchen, which I think is pretty cool.”

“I’d eat there every day,” Keith says with a smile. “If you aren’t completely booked all the time, of course.”

“You could permanently reserve the corner table,” I suggest.

Keith wrinkles his nose. “Is it even possible to do that?”

“I’m the manager,” I say flippantly. “I can do whatever I want. While we’re at it, want a life-long discount for ESCs?”

Keith’s laughing. “ESCs?”

“Extra Special Customers,” I explain with a Charmer.

“So, how long have you known each other?” Shiro’s eyes are narrowed, but his tone is as gracious as ever.

Keith and I exchange a look. “We ran into each other in the hall back in October,” I say. “Literally.”

“We only _really_ met around a month later,” Keith adds. “At Kettle Corner.” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “You insulted my coffee.”

“_You_ came to the counter for the first time ever and ordered a pitch-black espresso,” I fire back, grinning. “After mooching off the café WiFi for like, forever.”

“_Keith!_” Shiro exclaims in exasperation. “You _know_ you can find WiFi _here._”

“Yeah, but then I’d have to visit you more often,” Keith snarks.

Shiro chuckles. “I love you too.”

I look to Keith, who sighs. “I go to Kettle Corner mostly for the atmosphere,” he relents. “It’s a good writing space.”

“And?” Shiro is smirking. Why is he smirking? I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

Keith blushes. “And I like the barista who makes kick-butt coffee.”

“Not at first,” I say, very firmly _not_ blushing.

“You _judged_ my _coffee._”

“Like you just did with Shiro’s?” I tease.

Keith shrugs. “I’ve seen the light.” He smiles. “You’re just lucky you redeemed yourself in my eyes, or else I’d never have ordered anything from the café ever again.” He turns to Shiro. “Lance had some pretty good theories about Wild Notion that turned out to be right. He was really helpful with an article I was having trouble with.”

“Was he now.” Shiro looks at me, and any warmth false or otherwise vanishes from his eyes. If suspicion was a blade, I’d be full of holes.

“I didn’t help _that_ much,” I say. “Keith’s giving me too much credit.”

“Really.” Shiro’s tone is thoughtful. Then he pulls a sleek black phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen. He looks apologetically at me. “Lance, I’m sorry to cut this short, but would you mind leaving early? Something’s come up.”

Nothing’s come up. His phone didn’t even buzz, and when he looked at the screen, his face wasn’t lit by the faint glow it would have emitted if the phone had actually been on. He wants me gone.

“Not at all.” I put my glass down on the coffee table - dark, polished wood that probably cost a fortune - and stand. “It was nice to meet you,” I say politely. “And thanks for the water.”

Keith also stands. “I’ll drive you back.”

“Actually...” Shiro says apologetically, “I need to talk to you, Keith.”

“It’s okay,” I say as Keith looks to me. “I can walk. See you around?”

“Absolutely.” Keith’s smile and Shiro’s carefully neutral expression are the last things I see before my shoes are on and the door is closing behind me.

But I don’t leave. Not yet. I lean against the wall like I’m waiting for someone and listen.

“You have to... ties… Lance.”

“What?” Keith’s voice is louder, much easier to hear. You wouldn’t need superb observational skills to catch what he’s saying. “_Why?_”

“… can’t be trusted.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Keith practically shouts. “He’s an amazing person!! He works for a little old lady, he helps people he doesn’t know because that’s just how he is - I saw him get to class late because he stopped to clean up someone else’s mess - and he sews in his spare time. He hums _Backyardigans_ songs while he works!”

“I know you… Keith. But-”

“He did a double job yesterday, but he told the manager to give the extra money to the worker who was out sick.” Keith sounds furious, almost like my honour should be the one thing nobody can question. “He’s _BROKE_, Shiro!”

“Listen to me, Keith.” Shiro’s voice isn’t much louder than it was before, but I can suddenly hear every syllable. “I’ve had a lot of experience with shady people. Some of them are easy to pick out right away. Others… they lure you in by pretending they’re the nicest people in the world, and then they stab you in the back. Or they start sliding in the knife from the beginning, little by little, so you don’t even notice they’re hurting you.”

“We’re not talking about the Empire,” Keith says, a bit less harshly. I wince. The Empire was the worst gang in the city until the Defenders took it down around a year ago. Members had red tattoos of the gang emblem, wore purple warpaint at all times, and carried military-grade weapons. Lots of them had powers, and all of them were vicious.

“I know.” Shiro’s voice snaps me out of it. “What I’m saying is, I have a good sense for when someone can’t be trusted. And Lance is trouble.”

“He’s a _good person_,” Keith says, but he says it so quietly I barely hear him.

I need to leave.

I swallow the doubts rising in my throat and lightfoot it to the elevator. The muzak that I previously thought so stuffy now seems too lively and upbeat by a whole. I do my best to just block it out.

On the fourth floor, the door opens to admit two other people. One is a tall, slate-eyed white guy in maybe his late forties or early fifties, with dashingly styled flaming red hair, a hooked nose, and a bushy moustache. The other I recognize as the daughter of mayoral candidate Alfor Altea - or, as I know her, Lady Light.

Believe it or not, I’m not even nervous that she’ll recognize me. She’s seen Lance McClain before and never noticed a thing, which just confirms my old theory that the Dark Knight is the sharpest of the lot. So instead of being worried, I’m curious.

Allura Altea is almost my height, and slender in an elegant Disney princess sort of way, with skin a shade or two darker than mine and eyes that I can now see are a luminous blue. (As Lady Light, they are perpetually glowing a formidable pink.) Her hair, which Defanders only ever see as pure white with pink tips that move like flames, is bleached silver-blonde and tied up in a ponytail. The “tattoos” Lady Light is known to have are missing from her bare upper arms, not that I’m surprised. (I’ve seen her suit up close. The markings are part of gauze sleeves that blend in with her skin.)

She still has that rich-person accent, though. “I _told_ you we should have taken the elevator from the start,” she’s saying/laughing as the two board.

“Nonsense,” Moustache Man scoffs, sounding a bit winded. Weird, they share an accent. “Elevators are for old people.”

Miss Altea shakes her head. “They are for _sensible_ people. Don’t tell me you planned to climb two more sets of stairs, Coran.”

“I most certainly was,” Coran says with dignity. “Anything to keep you safe.”

“_Coran._” Miss Altea sounds vaguely embarrassed.

Coran leans toward me and stage whispers, “I’m really here so _she_ doesn’t cause trouble. She’s a real quiznacker, you know.”

“_Coran!_”

He winks at me and straightens.

“It’s okay, miss,” I say. The words pretty much come out on their own. “Mischievousness is hot.”

Miss Altea looks affronted while Coran starts laughing. The corner of my mouth twitches up.

I’ve flirted with this girl before, when both of us were masked and costumed. It’s a game I play, tossing cornball pickup lines at her to annoy and distract her enough to make my escape easier. Now that I actually have a crush, though, the act feels a bit like a betrayal. I hopefully won’t have to do it for much longer as Wild Notion. But here in the elevator, with what kind of counts as permission to mess around, it feels okay to tease.

“I like this one,” Coran tells Miss Altea, putting a hand on my shoulder. He turns to me and makes a mock-threatening face. “But lay so much as a finger on her, my boy, and I’ll fold you into a crane like a quiznacking sheet of origami paper.”

“For goodness sake,” Miss Altea says in exasperation. “You’re Father’s confidante, not my bodyguard.”

Coran shushes her. “_He_ doesn’t need to know that.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m already interested in somebody else,” I offer. Probably not something I should mention to a Defender, particularly one who’s on her way to visit Takashi Shirogane, but I like Coran. He’s super cool. And ‘quiznacking’? That’s a new one. I like that too.

Miss Altea opens her mouth to respond to this revelation, but Coran speaks over her. “We are going down,” he announces, sounding a bit baffled.

“Yeah, sorry, my stop’s on ground level,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck.

“Oh.” Coran twitches his moustache in embarrassment, but is smiling dashingly in the next instant. “No need to apologize! We are perfectly fine with waiting.”

We come to a halt and the elevator door opens. “Have a good one,” I say with a wave, stepping out.

“He seems nice,” Coran can be heard remarking, followed by Miss Altea’s impatient, “How many times must I tell you I’m not-” And then the door’s closed and I’m left to walk home, with nothing but my repressed doubts to keep me company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so this is where things start getting interesting


	31. I am a Squishable Human Being

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to put this chapter in at all, but then I decided, to heck with it, Lance deserves some cuddles before we delve into the angst.

“So, how’d it go?” Hunk asks.

“Shiro’s… nice.”

You can practically hear Hunk’s face fall. “Oh buddy.” He sits on my bed and gives me a comforting hug. “It’s okay. Shiro’s opinion doesn’t mean everything.”

“Yes it _does!_”

Hunk sighs. “You can’t win ’em all, Lance. There’s always going to be that one person that keeps their walls up.”

“Thanks, Hunk,” I mumble.

We sit in silence, which is fine by me. It’s been a long time since anyone’s let me get snuggly with them, and it’s really nice. The warmth and comforting weight of Hunk’s arms around me almost seem to leech the tension out of my muscles.

I’m just on the verge of being lulled to sleep when Hunk says reflectively, “But why _doesn’t_ Shiro like you? You’re a _great_ person. Do you remind him of somebody, or does he just not like-”

“Quiznack, Hunk, that’s not _helping!_”

Hunk winces. “Sorry. Hey, so I’m guessing you’ve met Coran?”

I nod. “He’s cool.”

“Oh _no_,” Hunk moans, but his voice is smiling. “What kind of monster has been created?”

“Gee, thanks,” I say.

“Sorry, it’s just that you two would get into _crazy_ situations if left alone together. Where’d you meet him, at Shiro’s place?”

“On the way back,” I remember. “He and a friend were coming, I was going.”

“Oh, Allura was there too?”

“Uh huh.” No point bringing it to Hunk’s attention that he’s just made a bit more of a blunder. “Hey, are she and Shiro… a thing?”

Hunk chuckles. “Lots of people think that. No, Allura’s not interested in a relationship right now, and Shiro has a boyfriend.”

I nod. “Gotcha. And Coran is Allura’s...”

“Sort of an uncle figure.” Hunk shrugs. “Honestly, he’s mine as well.” He pulls out of the hug enough to look me solemnly in the eyes. “Do _not_ let him know you’re not on great terms with your family, because he _will_ adopt you.”

“Yes please,” I say before I can stop myself.

“I take that back.” Hunk hugs me tighter than before, pressing the side of my head to his chest with enough strength that I can hear his heartbeat more clearly than my own. “Tomorrow, we are getting you to a courthouse and Coran is signing those papers. Your parents don’t deserve you.”

“Yrr skwshing mrh,” I say, the words coming out funny on account of my face being squashed.

Hunk pats my slightly-less-distorted cheek. “Shhh. Just accept my love and support.” He pats my cheek again, then pinches it gently and pulls it this way and that experimentally. “Holy cow, your cheeks are _soft!_”

“Strp ir, Hnnk.”

“Just give me a minute.” Hunk plays with my cheeks for a bit, grinning delightedly. Finally, he lets go. “Okay, I’m done. But dude, how do you have such squishy cheeks?” he enthuses. “There’s like _zero squish_ to the _rest_ of you.”

I shrug. “One of life’s great mysteries, I guess.”

Hunk gasps excitedly. “Can we get a picture? Pleeease?”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” Hunk agrees. “C’mon, just one? I’ll bake a whole batch of garlic knots just for you~”

I sigh. “I can’t say no to that. But only. One.”

“_Yes._” Hunk fetches his tablet and props it up on his nightstand. Then he taps the screen a few times, plops down beside me, and squishes my cheeks with both fingers. I don’t have time to react before the flash blinds me.

“Happy?” I complain, rubbing my eyes as Hunk grabs the tablet and takes a gleeful look at the photo.

He nods without looking up. “Absolutely.” Tap, tap. He’s immersed in whatever he’s doing with the picture.

I fidget. “Can we… do the snuggling thing some more, or...”

“Aw, buddy, you don’t have to ask.” Hunk puts the tablet down, leans back against the wall, and holds his arms out. I snuggle in, he drapes a blanket over the two of us, and we spend some time just enjoying being comfortable.

I wake up who-knows-how-much-later to find myself curled up under Hunk’s quilt, with my roommate himself snoring softly from his own bed. Warmed both in heart and physical body, I fall back asleep within moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm 100% here for platonic cuddling.


	32. I Do a Horrible Job of Being a Good Person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we go into another montage. Que the music!
> 
> [This Is What It Feels Like](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDLwdmNgaOg)
> 
> [Say Something (I'm Giving Up On You)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BmErRm-vApI)

Done!

I snip the thread, then put the scissors down and admire my work.

The junkyard lion has undergone a remarkable metamorphosis in my care; it now has a white face with two tiny yellow buttons for eyes and a pair of triangle ears stiffened with a bit of wire. I went a step beyond that and added white paws, a white tummy, and a white tip of the tail, with a bit of blue embroidery inspired by the markings of a character from one of my favourite tv shows. And it has teeny little claws, because what self-respecting lion doesn’t have _claws?_

The torn fabric is mended, the dirty, matted stuffing has been replaced, and it’s so clean you can practically smell the soap. All it needs now is a note.

After some thought, I come up with (insert image) Onto a piece of cardstock it goes. I tie the note to a blue ribbon around the lion’s neck, and my gift to Keith is complete. I just have to find a good time to give it to him.

This could be a problem.

Keith doesn’t come in at all during my workday. This hasn’t happened very often since Sharpshooter Reporter became a thing, but it’s really nothing to worry about. He could have plans tonight, or just not feel the need for café food. Or maybe he’s not feeling well. I haven’t seen around campus either. I’ll just give him his gift when he’s out and about again.

> TO: nightowlsquared@gmail.com
> 
> FROM: ghostgirl287@gmail.com
> 
> SUBJECT: Save the Date II
> 
> To whom it may concern,
> 
> Our last reunion was such a blast, we’ve decided to host another! Tomorrow’s gathering will take place at eleven o’clock sharp, at the old belltower.
> 
> Again, please keep in mind that electronics are prohibited.
> 
> See you there,
> 
> Winona Norris
> 
> Head of the LNCARS
> 
> Sent from my iPhone

Keith isn’t there when I arrive, which is no big deal. I’m ten minutes early, after all. I perch on top of the gigantic clock and wait.

Half an hour later, though, Keith still hasn’t shown up and I’m getting worried.

The door opens the second time I knock. But it’s his roommate, not Keith, who answers. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me and waits for an explanation.

“Hi,” I say. “Is Keith here? I really need to talk to him.”

“He’s out.” The roommate - I think his name’s Ryan something or other - regards me with eyes the colour and steadfastness of bedrock. He doesn’t seem hostile or cold, just reserved.

“Thanks anyway.” I nod cordially and turn to leave. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“Wait,” Ryan says suddenly, prompting me to stop and turn around. “I can pass on a message if you want.”

“Really?” I ask, probably too eagerly. “Thank you _so_ much, I really appreciate it. Can you just tell Keith Lance was looking for him? He’ll understand.”

Ryan nods. “I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks again,” I say gratefully, running a hand through my hair. “Have a good one.”

As I walk away, I feel a bit guilty. It’s possible Keith’s avoiding me for some reason or another. (It could be him heeding Shiro’s warning, but I REFUSE to think about that.) A good person would give him space and let him come back on his own, once he’s had time to sort things out. That’s what _I_ should be doing. Note to self: _Be patient. Wait for Keith. He’s done the same for you._

I’m trying to give Keith his space, I really am. But it’s been over two weeks now, and he hasn’t stopped by Kettle Corner _once._ He’s missed two heists. I know he didn’t just arrive late, because I waited an entire hour for him and he never showed. I send him a private message on Cosmic Super Vision:

> hey im hittin jensen + jensens @ 2 tonite, u intrstd n bustin me?

I wait until just after two to do my job, then loiter for another long while, making faces at the security cameras Pidge disabled remotely. Finally, I leave to bring Pidge her materials and apologize for taking my time in doing so.

> Hey Keith. It’s Lance.
> 
> I don’t know what’s going on, but I hope you’re doing okay.
> 
> If you want to talk about anything, I’ll always be here for you. If you don’t want to, well, that’s okay too.
> 
> Please come back to Kettle Corner sometime. I really miss you.
> 
> Sincerely yours,
> 
> Lance

Not only does Keith not show up at Kettle Corner, he doesn’t respond to my message at all.

Saturday. I steal a big bundle of cables from a robotics lab in broad daylight. Instead of quietly slipping away, or bidding a dramatic farewell to the one guy who saw me, I opt to simply walk out.

I garner a lot of attention as I stroll through the city in my suit, my clearly stolen haul tucked under my arm like a gentleman’s umbrella. I take a meandering route past the junkyard, hoping Keith might be in the area.

Finally, the sirens get too close for me to ignore, and I pour on the stealth. I won’t be seeing Keith today.

> I’m getting concerned, Keith. Are you okay? Please respond as soon as you can.

No response. My inbox is empty.

Another paint heist. I hang around for so long that I actually see the Defenders arrive outside the store.

I climb the wall, lift one of the ceiling panels, and crawl inside to wait for them to leave, since I’m not in the mental state to handle a three-on-one fight in a store. Through the panels, I can hear Lady Light say, “His mark’s still damp. He just left.” Hurried footsteps moving toward the door tell me at least two of the Defenders are leaving.

A moment after the door closes, I hear more footsteps, slower, stealthier. They pause every now and then, and then start up in a different part of the store.

It can only be the Dark Knight. He’s the only Defender who can teleport, although with the lights still on, there can’t be that many conveniently-sized shadows for him to teleport through. I just hope he doesn’t think to teleport into _here._ Plenty of shadows where _I’m_ at.

I’m motionless.

At last, his footsteps become less stealthy. The lights click out. The door swings shut. He’s gone.

After a few minutes of waiting for him to leave the mall altogether, I let out a deep breath and climb down. Then I let myself out of the store, relock the door behind me, and make my sneaky way home.

Probably picking up on my increasingly despondent mood, Hunk takes me to meet Shay, who turns out to be a striking olive-skinned demigirl with kind hazel eyes and large stone beads tied into her bobbed black hair. If I’m tall, she’s a titan - and she has at least twice the muscle mass that I do. But she has a sweet face, and when she talks you can tell from her voice that she’s a complete angel.

“I’m female for the most part,” she tells me as I shake her (very large, very callused) hand. “Sometimes I’m more of a them.”

I nod. “Understood. Let me know if I use the wrong pronouns, okay?”

That earns me a dazzling smile. “I _do_ like him,” she says to Hunk, who nods in an I-told-you kind of way.

Shay lives in a family-owned brownstone in downtown Cosmos City. The residents call it the Balmera after their hometown, and it’s a cozy, earthy place with ground-toned walls, lots of beaded curtains and cool blue salt lamps, and simple wooden furniture. At the end of the day, the whole family gathers for supper, Hunk and myself included. The meal isn’t fancy - a traditional stew of tubers and (get this) bugs, with flatbread and what I think is goat milk - but it’s delicious, and Shay’s grandmother starts doling out second helpings before I can open my mouth enough to ask.

It’s an enjoyable evening, and I couldn’t be happier for Hunk, who’s obviously found his soulmate. Yet despite the warm welcome, the good food and companionship, my head is heavy. I’m surrounded by loving and joyful people, but I can’t stop thinking about the one person who isn’t here.

> ur rlly slippin mullet. wuts up w/ that? wr gettin lonely here

I’ve taken to carrying the junkyard lion with me everywhere I go. It’s not really a lucky charm, but I treat it as such. Maybe one of these days I’ll run into Keith somewhere, and I can give it to him then, but that hasn’t happened yet. And truth be told, I’m starting to lose hope.

> Keith?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just... sad.
> 
> Edit: I have been made aware that the proper word for someone who is sometimes female and sometimes nonbinary is "demigirl", and corrected my mistake. I apologize to anyone I might have offended.


	33. A Very Thick Line is Finally Crossed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confrontation and angst. Just a warning for those of you who aren't overly into that kind of thing.
> 
> Also, please keep in mind that when you're a hormonal teenaged girl who's going through a lot of stress, you tend to make bad choices when you get worked up.
> 
> [Good Things Fall Apart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0PJ86_GhFY)

I’m pacing the underside of the dock with Adele’s _Hello_ playing through my earbuds when Blue buzzes. I take a look at the screen.

> We need to talk.

I don’t need intuition to realize Pidge has something weighty on her mind. Proper grammar, punctuation, and capitalization gets the message across just fine.

> I’ll be there asap

I turn off my laptop and climb out from under the dock. Then I set off for The Hole.

Pidge is waiting for me. My intuition starts up the second I see her in front of the coffee table, expression grim. “There’s a problem,” she says. I open my mouth to ask, but she silences me with a raised hand. “No. You need to _listen._”

I nod mutely. I’m not sure I could speak at this point anyway. My throat is a salt pan.

Pidge starts pacing. “Jensen & Jensen’s. They went through the camera feed from the night of the break-in and discovered that Wild Notion suddenly popped into view _fifteen minutes_ after you texted me to pick up the loot. Spalding-Toale Lab of Robotics. Wild Notion stole some valuable cables and then walked out and took a stroll around the city until the police almost caught up with him. Spit ‘N’ Polish Paints. The Defenders were _this close_ to catching you!”

I manage a word. “Pidge-”

“I’m not _done_ yet, Lance.” Pidge’s tone is low and dangerous. “It’s one thing to get sloppy. It’s another thing to deliberately set yourself up to be caught.”

“I didn’t-”

“THEN EXPLAIN ALL THE EMAILS YOU SENT THE MASKED REPORTER!”

Pidge’s explosion is followed by a silence so fraught with tension that a single misplaced breath feels like it could bring everything down on our heads. I’m the first to break it.

“How would you _know?_” I whisper.

Pidge looks away. “I’ve been monitoring your online activity, Do _not_ pretend you’re the victim here,” she growls as I stare at her in betrayal. “Ever since that last bank heist, you’ve been spending more and more time out and about in your suit. I had to make sure you weren’t getting yourself into dilemmas you couldn’t get yourself out of.”

“So you started _spying_ on my _private conversations?_” I shout.

“No!” Pidge shouts back. “I only started _after_-”

“You bugged me.” It’s my turn to be deathly quiet. “Where is it.”

“I needed to know where you were,” Pidge defends herself. “If you had just stuck to the plan, I wouldn't have _had_ to use the tracker-”

“_Where is the tracker, Pidge._”

She falls silent.

I look at her for a moment. Then I walk to my room, take my suit out of the closet, and return to the living room. Making sure Pidge is watching, I check each pocket, run my fingers along the lining of my hood, and then pick up the mask. She flinches ever so slightly, but I don’t need to see her to know; my intuition picks up on the tracker’s aura of wrongness immediately. I look into Pidge’s eyes as I peel the tiny device off the edge of my mask, roll it between forefinger and thumb, then drop it on the floor and crush it under my foot. “Never. Again.”

Pidge lifts her chin, eyes hard and defiant through the tears gathering there. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. Your recklessness, your unreliability - I can’t stand by and let you endanger Operation Iceberg like that anymore. I called you here to tell you we’re _done._ I’ve found a new partner.”

That hits like a combine header to the chest.

Pidge mistakes my inability to speak as defiance. “Isn’t this _better_ for you? If you’re so interested in hanging out with the good guys, you should give up on being a villain.”

“I never wanted to be a villain,” I choke out. “You shouldn’t either.”

“I _don’t_,” Pidge snaps. “_You’re_ the one who decided that was the word for what we were doing.”

“Pidge, the police would call Operation Iceberg a _hate crime._” I don’t know how I’m communicating right now; I’m not breathing. “That’s basically _terrorism!_”

“I’m bringing justice where the police failed,” Pidge hisses.

“Justice isn’t destroying someone’s life to make someone else’s better.”

“Grow up, Lance! This is the real world. People get hurt by other people’s actions all the time. You can’t just magically have a happy ending where all your problems are solved in a way where everyone wins. It _doesn’t work like that._” Pidge takes a deep breath. I don’t speak into the silence. “Look. The problem is that you’re putting your effort in the wrong place - your image. If you’d just focused on doing your job, we wouldn’t be under such heat. I gave you a second chance. I let you try to prove you could and would take this seriously. But you failed.” She looks me in the eye. “It’s over.”

“You’re making a mistake.” The words catch me by surprise. “You don’t even know if you can trust your new partner.”

“Haven’t you made this hard enough already?” Pidge yells. “Just _leave!_”

My throat fills with tears striving for a mass exodus. I tuck my suit under my arm and walk to the door. “This is a mistake,” I manage. My voice sounds so broken. “Please, Pidge, this can’t end well for you.”

She turns her back on me.

I let the door close quietly behind me and walk slowly down the empty hall. I can’t keep myself from crying, but I _refuse_ to make any noise. The last thing I want is for Pidge to think I’m a crybaby as well as a failure.

But just before I reach the door leading outside, I stop. Nobody’s here. Nobody’s _ever_ here.

It’s not instantaneous, but the suit comes on almost by itself. I’m an observer here, not a participant. Muscle memory, not wilful action, slips on the gloves, tightens the belt, pulls up the hood.

I pause, considering the insanity of what I’m about to do. It’s not enough to sway me. Pidge wants me to take Operation Iceberg seriously? I’ll show her just how _seriously_ I can take it.

Silent tears streaming down my face, civilian clothes lying in a heap by the door, I lift the mask to my face, take a deep breath, and step out.

There are no witnesses to see Wild Notion enter the outside world. There’s no one to notice he is no longer playing around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not post over the next few days due to crazy Christmas scheduling, just so you know.


	34. I Take Matters into My Own Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Festivus, for those of you who aren't big on Christmas

Pidge thinks I don’t pay attention to her plans.

She’s wrong. I’ve had every list, blueprint, and chart memorized since she put it up in her room at The Hole, which is coming in pretty handy right now.

There are only a few parts she needs in order to finish the project, the most prominent being a special circuit board located in a government-run faculty with top-notch security Pidge has yet to find a weakness in.

That’s the piece I intend to steal. The piece I _will_ steal - a flash of foresight shows me walking into The Hole with the circuit board in hand.

Not drawing people’s attention while wearing a suit well-known to the whole city is a challenge… unless you’re me. I can basically become invisible when I don’t want to be noticed. And right now, I don’t want to be noticed. Nobody sees me make my way across the city, or come to a halt on a roof with a good view of the lab I’m about to sneak into.

I take a few moments to eye the building, which is an enormous, sprawling piece of steel and glass. There are tons of windows, all reflective and therefore most likely hiding security guards. The doors and openable windows are wired for sure, there are security cameras at regular intervals, the doors are all armoured and lockable, and everything is connected to a backup generator in case of blackouts man-made or natural, which is wired to set off an alarm if someone tampers with it. Breaking into this place is a fool’s mission.

Well, call me a fool. I’m going in.

I squint at the nearest window, which _should_ be not far from the room I need to find. Motion. But moving away. I watch as the guard turns and comes back, then makes a few more passes. It takes maybe three minutes for each one.

Annnd… _now._ I take a running start, kick off the roof, and land next to my window of choice.

Flattening myself against the steel, I wait for the guard to return and walk away before pulling out my glass cutter and starting on the window.

A little-known perk to the whole keen eyes/intuition thing? You can make darn-near perfect circles whenever you want.

I work carefully but quickly, leaving just enough space between the blade and the frame to avoid setting off the alarm. When I’ve cut a pizza-sized circle in the glass, I flatten my palm to the centre and swivel my wrist, turning the circle back and forth until the edges have been filed down enough for the shape to come loose. Then I pull it out - literal sticky fingers are great for this - and let it fall to the ground two storeys below.

Climbing in through the hole takes a bit of manoeuvring, since while I resemble a twig with less-than-impressive muscles, I also have weirdly broad shoulders that probably look quite silly paired with my gangly arms and long legs. (I’m like 40% leg.) But I squeeze through and land in a crouch on the floor like a pro. From there, it’s up the wall and onto the ceiling.

My internal clock is ticking. Any second now, the guard’ll return, probably see me as soon as they turn the corner, and go for the walkie talkie - or whatever delightful weapon these people are armed with. My job is to launch myself at them and floor them. Step two: borrow the uniform and see how far I get from there. Solid plan, I know, but let’s not forget that I’m a situational guy with above-average skills of observation and intuition. This is how I do some of my best work.

Something’s wrong.

The guard is late. A few seconds would be nothing to worry about, but it’s been over a minute now.

I creep forward, turn the corner, and stop short. The guard is lying in a heap on the floor, not moving.

Is that blood?

Heart in my mouth, I drop to the ground and kneel to check for breath, a pulse, anything that’ll tell me they’re alive.

It’s a woman, and she’s unconscious from a blow to the head. I let out the breath I’ve been holding. But I’m more on edge than before.

Someone knocked out this guard at some point while I was nearby, without me hearing or seeing a thing. And they’re likely still here. Unless...

I stand and take two steps down the hall. That’s as far as I get, because just as I lift my foot to take a third step, the door a few metres down explodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate to post and dash, but I've got a family gathering in like five minutes, so I'm kind of doing bare-minimum presenting here, sorry


	35. Things Take a Major Turn for the Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you say that last chapter was really... _bringing the heat?_
> 
> (i'm sorry i'll go now)

Purple flames erupt from the door, sending burning shards flying. The heat shatters every window within a thirty-foot radius and drives the air from my lungs

These are not normal flames. But I can’t focus on that right now. I crouch and pick up the guard. She’s _heavy._ I almost drop her as I struggle to stand. How am I going to get both of us out of here safely? The fire growls and spits like a living thing as it spreads, almost drowning out the blaring alarms entirely. It’s eating through the walls and floor like they’re made of toothpicks instead of linoleum and painted brick.

I don’t know if it’s that nauseating heat or just plain fear, but my heart starts pumping fast and hard, as though I’ve just run a marathon. Suddenly, the guard doesn’t feel nearly as heavy. I break into a run. Intuition points me at a spot where the window is completely gone, with no lingering shards to impale me or my cargo. I leap out and push off the wall, even though the nearest building is out of jumping range without a running start off a higher surface. But somehow, I land it. We slide down the wall, and I manage to make it a soft landing.

The guard’s eyelids are fluttering as I set her down carefully. “It’s okay miss,” I say breathlessly, even though I doubt she can hear me. “You’re safe now. Just… just wait here for the firefighters to find you, okay? They’ll help you.” Then I turn and run back toward the burning lab, intending to help anyone I can find who might have gotten caught in the blaze.

Something stops me.

It’s a person sprinting away from the building. I recognize him immediately, more by the damage he just caused than by his outfit. And yes, he’s definitely the cause of this fire. Only one person in Cosmos City can create these explosive, unnaturally hungry purple flames. And what’s more, he has a large circuit board tucked under his arm - the one I came to steal, no doubt.

Alright, change of plans.

I change course and take off after the culprit.

“STOP!”

I screech to a halt despite my instincts telling me to go faster.

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

The Defenders are here, and they’ve arrived just in time to witness what looks an awful lot like me fleeing the scene of a crime I just committed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll say it for all of us: Lance is in some deeep crap


	36. The Truth Comes Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst for Christmas, I'm sorry, guys

They’re all here. Lady Light, hovering twenty feet above the ground. Mechaforge, face nervous but determined. And the Dark Knight, whose expression conveys only hatred, with his shadow hand already morphing into a broadsword.

“I knew you were a vandal, but _arson?_” Lady Light is practically growling. “Is there _no_ crime too low for you?”

“I didn’t do it,” I pant.

“Right, yeah, because running away from a crime scene doesn’t make you look guilty, like, at _all_,” Mechaforge puts in sarcastically. It hurts, hearing the dislike in Hunk’s voice, even if he doesn’t know he’s talking to his best friend. (Oh God, what if Shiro told him and he _does_ know? No. I can’t do this to myself right now.)

“I’m not running away,” I defend myself. “I mean, I _am_, but not because I’m guilty. I’m trying to catch the real person behind this - I saw him make off with stolen tech - you can still catch him if you hurry, he’s-”

“_Enough._” The Dark Knight’s voice is as sharp as his blade. “We have no reason to trust a lying, manipulative snake like you. You can come quietly, or you can make us do this the hard way.”

“I _didn’t set the fire._”

The Dark Knight lifts his sword. “The hard way it is.” He swings at me.

I leap out of the way. “So you’re just going to _attack_ me?” I shout as Mechaforge raises his fists and Lady Light summons her light whip. “And leave everyone in that building to _burn?_ You _have_ to _save_ them!” The Defenders turn to look at the building, which is being consumed by the flames as we watch.

“Mechaforge!” Lady Light barks, already flying toward the building. Mechaforge gives me one last hard look and follows.

I breathe a sigh of relief. At least the people in there are getting help.

“This is all part of your plan,” Dark Knight accuses, lashing out with his weapon. I duck. “Distract us with the fire while you make your getaway. Well, it won’t work on me.”

“I didn’t plan for _any_ of this,” I say desperately. “You _have_ to believe me!”

“No. I don’t.” He feints with the blade, then aims a sweeping kick at the back of my knees with the opposite leg.

I jump back, narrowly avoiding both. “_Please_, Shiro! I only came to steal a part, not blow anything up! I had _nothing_ to do with the fire!”

“What makes you think I would _ever_ trust you? You’re the master of mind games and tricks. I wouldn’t believe you if you swore on a stack of Bibles.”

For some reason, that of all things makes my blood boil. “Untrustworthy, huh?” I spit. “Nice to know how you _really_ feel. Are _you_ the reason Keith’s avoiding me?” I have no control over the words as they leave my mouth, but at this point, I don’t care. At the very least, I need this answer.

The Dark Knight shifts his hand into a bludgeon and holds it at the ready. “So he _did_ listen.”

“You _are_,” I choke. “Do you realize how _painful_ it is to lose one of your best friends and not even know _why?_”

“You should have known the second you entered my home,” the Dark Knight growls. “I’d _never_ let my kid brother be manipulated, especially by _you_.”

That’s IT. I don’t care what the consequences are.

I tear the mask from my face and stab my finger at myself, not bothering to pretend I’m not crying and furious and completely past my breaking point. “Look at me, Shiro. LOOK AT ME. This is not the face of someone who’d manipulate the person he loves!”

“Lance?”

The voice is soft and coming from behind me. I turn.

Keith’s eyes widen as they land on my unmasked face. He looks at the Dark Knight, face full of emotions - surprise, worry, grief - and whispers, “So you _did_ know.”

My breath catches in my throat. Pain too deep to be physical courses through me. The hurt in Keith’s voice, the betrayal, the single accusing note rising above it all; all of it crushes my heart more thoroughly than years of guilt and shame ever could. With a choked sob, I slap the mask back on and run.

Nobody moves to stop me.

I stop running when my lungs threaten to stop working altogether. I keep moving, stumbling along more to keep myself from developing a cramp along with everything else than to get somewhere important.

Out of habit, I reach into my pockets for the junkyard lion. Its presence has come to be a source of emotional support for me, which is the one thing in the world I need most right now.

It’s not there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!


	37. I Assert Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that holiday angst. There is comfort coming, I promise.

I head for The Hole. Where else can I go? It’s not like I can sneak into the Garrison dorms in my suit in broad daylight without being seen by a student, teacher, or janitor. At the very least, I have to get my clothes.

Since it’s still daytime, I take the high road and do the webless-Spider-Man thing; running along walls and jumping from building to building. At this point, I’m completely numb inside. It’s actually kind of helpful. I can’t feel anything right now, so I don’t freak out when I glance down to see a familiar figure heading in exactly the same direction as me. He’s wearing a helmet that obstructs his face, but I know right away who he is. Without a second thought, I jump off the wall and land in front of him. One swing knocks the helmet off his head. The second hits a special spot on his jaw and knocks him out immediately. He crumples.

I look down at him impassively.

It’s Lotor, a pale-skinned, platinum blond man I know from my criminal career before I met Pidge. He reminds me of Draco Malfoy, if Draco had dark blue eyes, wore his hair long and luxurious, and was six foot seven. He’s handsome, but there’s no way I’d ever trust him. On the other hand, Pidge doesn’t seem to have the same qualms. Opening his backpack reveals the circuit board I’d intended to steal. And he was heading in the direction of The Hole. It’s no coincidence; he’s Pidge’s new partner. My replacement.

I tuck the circuit board under my own arm, survey Lotor’s KO’d form coldly, and continue on my way. I’ll get Pidge her part, all right. It’s coming with a lot of strong words as a bonus.

“That was quick,” Pidge says without looking up from her laptop as I enter.

“Yes,” I say frostily. “It was.”

Pidge’s head snaps up and she whirls to face me. “_Lance?_ I told you to-” Her eyes land on the circuit board in my hands. “What?”

“I ran into your partner.” I set the board down on the counter. “Bad choice, Pidge.”

She’s at a loss for words. “You… but...”

“_Stop._” I take a deep breath and say a bit less abruptly, “Just... stop. It’s your turn to listen.”

No nod, but no head-shake either.

“You can’t trust Lotor. He will use you until you’ve outlived your purpose to him. Then he’ll betray you. Trust me, I’ve had run-ins with him before. Back when he was the leader of the Empire.”

Pidge frowns. “You’re just trying to get me to take you back.”

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m trying to warn you about Lotor.”

“Lotor’s gotten me lots of parts in a short amount of time, without getting caught or leaving stupid calling cards.”

“He _blew up_ the building he stole this from!”

Pidge opens her mouth to argue, then shuts it, eyes widening in shock. “_What?_”

I nod. “I was there, Pidge,” I say softly. “He attacked innocent people, stole the part, and then set the explosion and ran. I barely escaped.”

Pidge is beyond stunned now, and full-on horror-stricken. “He almost _killed_ you?”

“And everyone in the building. It’s a good thing the Defenders showed up in time to help.”

“Oh no,” Pidge breathes. Her voice is very small when she says, “They thought _you_ did it, didn’t they?”

I nod reluctantly. I’m trying very hard not to think about it.

To my surprise, Pidge’s eyes fill with tears and she hurls herself into my arms, hugging me as tightly as her scrawny arms can. “I’m _so s-sorry_,” she sobs into my chest. “I treated you _horribly_ be-because I thought you were just... _showing off_ for the media and f-for Keith and didn’t care about Operation Iceberg. I took you for granted and th-then… then I told you you were a _failure!_ And you tried to warn me I was making a bad decision, and now people are hurt and you felt bad and it’s _all my fault!_ Lance, I can’t _tell_ you how sorry I am!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” I say soothingly, rubbing her back. I’m crying too. “You didn’t mean to.”

“But I _hurt_ you!” Pidge wails. “The only person who actually understood and c-cared about me and everything I was doing, and I basically _attacked_ you! I deserve to be ha-hated!”

I hug her more tightly. “I could _never_ hate you, Pidge. You’re like a little sister to me.”

Pidge hiccups and pulls away to look at me. “You… _know?_ I’m a g-girl?”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “I always have.”

“B-but… you never said anything.”

“Why would I? It wouldn’t have changed anything. I’m here for you, not your gender.”

Pidge starts crying again. “W-why do you have to b-be so much of a _b-big brother?_” she wails.

I hug her tight and stroke her hair until she calms down. Then I maneuver the two of us onto the couch.

Finally, Pidge wipes her eyes and sits up. “Thanks, Lance,” she says in a stuffed-up voice. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”

I shake my head. “Don’t talk like that. I wasn’t taking your needs and feelings into consideration when I was slacking off on the job.” I get up and hold out my hand. “But now I know better, and I’m ready to finish this. Ready to execute Operation Iceberg?”

Pidge smiles and accepts my offered hand. I help her to her feet, then hold her hand as if to shake on a deal. Our eyes meet, and a surge of determination passes between us.

“Let’s go get your brother back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.
> 
> Also [EPIC CHRISTMAS SWEATER](https://grahoria.tumblr.com/post/189883508245/best-christmas-sweater-ever) (you can't tell in the picture, but I'm smiling like an idiot)


	38. We Get Down to Business (Huns Not Included)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, finally, you get brought up to speed. Sorry for the wait, y'all.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Well, Pidge’s is colder than ice, and she has a lot of it to serve.

Back in Chapter Three, I promised you an explanation about her brother, right? Here it is.

Just over a year ago, Pidge’s brother Matt went missing on his way home from an astronomy club. The police were contacted, but all they could figure out was that he was last seen taking a shortcut through an unlit alley. According to Pidge, she examined the alley after the police left, and she found a torn piece of paper with a signature on it - a signature belonging to one Zarkon Daibazaal.

She brought it to the police, but they weren’t willing to arrest a member of the city council over a scrap of paper, and shortly after, the case was declared cold. Pidge ran away not long after that. Now, with only a few parts left to steal and the construction to do, she’s finally going to get her brother back. And I’m helping.

Pidge divvies up a list of things we need, and we split up to steal them. Then we move on to the abandoned warehouse where all the supplies we’ve collected for Operation Iceberg are hidden.

Pidge spreads out the blueprints she’s drawn. A bit of study and we get to work.

Plot twist: I’m far from being a tech genius, but my powers come in handy once again. It’s like that scene from _The Lego Movie_; the instructions are in my head. I work just as well as Pidge does, maybe even faster because of my enhanced senses.

The sun has set, but we keep working, only speaking when one of use needs a tool or part.

Once the construction’s done, we move on to painting. We run out of paint at one point, so I raid Spit ‘N’ Polish Paints. Immediately upon returning, we get back to work. Time is no longer something either of us feels we have to spare.

Pidge and I set down our paintbrushes and step back to survey our work.

It’s a humongous robot, similar to a Transformer, but taller than a six-storey building. The face is white with rectangular headlight eyes, a Robo Cop-esque expression, and blue and green markings. The arms and legs are panelled like the robot is wearing blue and green armour, and it wears a ginormous chestplate and helmet of the same colours. Everything else is black.

At a nod from Pidge, I smash an empty Coke bottle against the robot’s titanic heel. “Voltron.”

(Yes, we modelled our giant war machine after a robot from a tv show. It was Matt’s favourite show.)

Pidge stares up at our creation silently. I nudge her arm with my elbow. “Ready to go, Pidgey?”

“It’s Katie,” she says suddenly. She turns to me, and I’m a bit surprised to see tears in her eyes. “In case this doesn’t work and we get arrested, you should know. My name’s Katie Holt.”

“It _will_ work,” I say confidently. “And when Matt and Katie Holt return home, everyone will realize they should have listened to you in the first place. You’ll be a hero.”

“What about you?” Pidge asks.

I’m caught off guard by that. “Well, I’ll quit my night job and focus on college,” I say after a moment of <strike>floundering</strike> thought. “I’ve got quite a bit saved up in the CCCU from the money heists, and if I find another part-time job with good hours and pay, I should be able to get by.” I pause to consider. “I won’t be able to keep The Hole, though.”

“You should come live with us,” Pidge blurts. I blink in surprise. “My family would gladly take you in. You’d still stay in a dorm on class days, but weekends and holidays you could come home and be a normal teen.”

“Pidge, I… I don’t know what to say.” I shake myself a bit theatrically, to get back into Operation Iceberg mode. “But first things first. We have to _save_ your family before we can talk about adding on to your family.”

“Right,” Pidge says. She takes a deep breath and puts on her serious face. “No more waiting.”

I follow her example, and together we turn to face Voltron. Its eyes glint in the dimness, as if reflecting our determination.

“Suit up. We’re going after Matt, _now._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dramatic music starts playing*
> 
> [Fanart by CrookedStar](https://www.tiktok.com/@idkasdf/video/6774564956840021253)


	39. If Might Makes Right, We Should Be Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operation Iceberg starts _now._

It’s early in the morning when the warehouse starts to shudder violently. I stand a safe distance away and watch.

Beside me, Pidge - no, the Gremlin - wears an expression of concentration as she sends telepathic instructions through the headband on her forehead. Along with the transmitter, she’s wearing her suit; a black neck gaiter, Matt’s old Voltron sweater, bracers, black gloves, black fortrel pants, and shoes with electromagnetic soles she can activate and deactivate using her powers.

The glasses are off. They’re actually Matt’s (Pidge has twenty-twenty vision and has only been wearing them in memory of her brother) and she’s decided not to risk them getting broken.

A good idea, I think as Voltron smashes through the warehouse wall and climbs out of the hole, crushing a lot of the rubble (and a sign announcing the building’s condemnation that must have been put up recently) in the process. It’s even more intimidating out here than inside the warehouse.

“You ready?” the Gremlin asks grimly, turning to face me. Seeing our war machine out and ready for battle has drained the moment of levity.

I nod. “It’s showtime.”

Voltron kneels in front of us and lowers its hand in invitation. I help the Gremlin up, then follow. We steady ourselves as Voltron stands and then lifts us to its mammoth shoulder, where we climb off.

“Daibazaal Manor,” the Gremlin instructs, even though Voltron responds to ESP instead of spoken commands. Regardless of how the message is received, Voltron starts walking. Each stride covers nearly a block.

My inner child is thrilled by the height and motion of the ride; the part of me that’s invested in the mission (about ninety-eight percent) is more focused on estimating how long until we reach Zarkon’s lair in High-End Uptown. And thinking that something about this doesn’t seem right.

Why a loaded politician would want to kidnap some random middle-class teenager is beyond me. What purpose could Matt Holt serve for someone with so many resources already at his disposal? It’s not like a captive will _better_ his chances at being elected over Alfor Altea for mayor.

Ugh, Keith’s conspiracy theorist ways must have rubbed off on me. (_Don’t think about Keith, don’t think about Keith._) And anyway, I don’t have time to puzzle over pieces that don’t fit perfectly. In the couple of minutes I’ve been thinking, we’ve almost reached our destination. Once we arrive, we start storming.

I look at the Gremlin. Her face is solemn and determined, and her eyes glint with hope tempered by steely resolve.

And then she’s gone.

I barely have time to register a flash of _LOOK OUT_ from my intuition before a pink-and-white blur slams into my partner-in-crime, its momentum sending them both hurtling out of view. Voltron halts.

“P- _GREMLIN!_” The word is barely out of my mouth before the shadow of Voltron’s head ripples and a second blur, this one almost entirely black, emerges. I only just manage to sidestep as the Dark Knight comes at me with shadow hand stun gun-shaped and shooting purple sparks.

My near miss is closely followed by a flurry of attacks from the angry superhero. Sidestep, sidestep, duck, tuck ‘n’ roll, jump back… “Bet you weren’t expecting the robot,” I comment, hoping the candid banter I’m known for will throw him off.

The Dark Knight continues to advance. “No. We received an anonymous tipoff.”

Lotor! That petty, low-hitting pyromaniac! “Let me guess,” I say, managing to come across as nonchalant. “Adult male, British accent, could charm a snake into blinking?” I duck under his thrust and come up behind him, clicking my tongue in disapproval. “I wouldn’t listen to him too much if I were you. He’s backstabbing, fire-setting, soulless scum.”

That seems to slow him down a bit. I take the opportunity to swing my foot at the back of his knees, knocking him off his feet. Then, as his back hits the ground/Voltron’s shoulder, I pin his shadow arm to the metal with my foot and crouch over him. “I don’t want to hurt you, Shiro. Just leave us alone, let us finish this, and we’ll be gone for good. I _promise._”

He glares at me, then melts into his own shadow.

I immediately jump up and rush into the light. If I stand where the only shadow is my own, with my back to the rising sun, I can catch him off guard…

My shadow roils as the Dark Knight erupts from it, less than a foot away from me. I’m ready with my finger on the nozzle. A thick spray of blue paint catches him in the face, obscuring him from view. I swing my fist into the cloud. I hate the idea of harming him, but the only way he’ll stop fighting me is if he’s unconscious.

No contact. The cloud of paint dissipates, revealing empty space where a superhero should be.

_TURN AROUND_

I start to pivot, but not fast enough. Something jabs me in the back and an overwhelmingly sharp sizzle of pain courses through me.

I think I scream, but I’m not sure. My legs give out, and it’s only the Dark Knight turning his shadow hand back into a hand and catching me that keeps me from hitting the ground. In one motion, he drags me forward three-ish paces and leaps into Voltron’s head’s shadow.

There’s a moment of murky pitch-blackness, a claustrophobic sense of not being able to breathe, and then we’re out.

The Dark Knight dumps me into a pair of familiar arms now sporting fingerless work gloves and spiked elbow pads. “Careful, he’s a slippery one.”

I don’t feel slippery. I feel scarily numb and prickly, like how I imagine acupuncture would be like. It’s all I can do to gulp for breath. That doesn’t stop Mechaforge from wrapping his arms around me and squeezing just enough to keep my arms pinned to my sides, though.

“What did you do to him?”

“Stun gun,” I manage. “Dirty… fight. Not c-cool.”

“You rode a war machine into the suburbs and then tried to spray paint in my eyes,” the Dark Knight says coldly. “Forgive me for my lack of pity.”

“Not _here_... to fight.” The words come easier as I get some more of my breathing under control. “Also, _stun gun?_ P-police brutality?” Okay, _that_ was supposed to stay _in._

“Where’s Lady Light?” Mechaforge asks.

The Dark Knight looks up, scanning the sky. “Dealing with that other villain. Gremlin, you said?”

“Why would you listen to _me?_” I say bitterly. “I’m the _master_ of _mind games_ and _tricks._ That could be my beloved pet ferret your glorious leader is manhandling.”

Lady Light chooses right now to land in front of us, carrying the Gremlin princess-style. My partner-in-crime is trussed up in Lady Light’s whip like she’s about to be tied to a railroad track. A section of whip covers her mouth like a gag, rendering her mute. Her eyes look to me, pleading for some kind of sign that things will be okay, and my heart aches. In this moment, she’s just a terrified little girl in a costume. Which makes it even worse that I have nothing I can say to comfort her. I'm not that good of a liar.

There’s no escaping this one.

It’s over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Gremlin](https://grahoria.tumblr.com/post/619743665533960192/the-gremlin-official-art)


	40. Broken People Make the Most Dangerous Enemies

“Good work,” Lady Light says upon seeing me struggling in Mechaforge’s grip. It’s a futile effort; the guy feels no pain.

“What took you so long?” he asks as I hammer his shins with my heels. “He- sh- _They_ don’t look that tough.”

“Sh-_he’s_ an _innocent child_,” I snap. “Of _course_ he doesn’t look tough!”

Lady Light frowns at me. “Your friend is _far_ from innocent.”

“He’s more innocent than _me_,” I insist. “Please - let him go. _I’m_ the one the police are after.”

“Don’t listen to him,” the Dark Knight warns darkly. “This _child_ is probably the mastermind behind his crime spree.”

“I thought the Empire took your arm, not your heart,” I growl. “Haven’t you damaged _enough_ lives for one day?”

The Dark Knight’s face goes hard. He turns his back on me - ironic, I think bitterly, since he’s so convinced I’m a stealthy back-stabber - and examines the Gremlin with what I’m assuming are suspicious and calculating eyes.

“Leave him alone,” I plead. “I’m _begging_ you. Take me and let him go!” I’m ignored.

_Just like all those other times._

No. Now is _not_ the time for that.

“Child or not, that was quite a struggle,” Lady Light admits, setting the Gremlin down, then nudging her somewhat less than gently toward the Dark Knight and shaking out her arms. I feel a tiny bit satisfied, despite my only real friend now being in my worst enemy’s hold. She clearly put up a good fight. And she tired Lady Light out a bit just by having to be carried.

Mechaforge eyes Voltron nervously. “Is that thing going to come alive and attack us when we’re not looking?”

“I doubt it.” Lady Light holds up the transmitter. “It stopped moving when I took this from Gremlin.”

“_The_ Gremlin,” I mumble. Ignored. Again.

“What are we going to do with a giant scary robot?” Mechaforge wonders.

“Dismantle it and return what we can to its rightful owners,” Dark Knight says, sounding more in charge than Lady Light.

I barely notice, though. My focus is on Pidge as she starts thrashing against her bonds. Her expression is beyond protesting. She’s on the verge of panic.

“_After_ we hand these two over to the police,” Lady Light adds. “Maybe we can leave the robot to them as well. They should know how to handle situations like this.”

Pidge stops struggling abruptly, looking like she’s been punched in the stomach. She knows more than any of us how little the police know sometimes, and how brutal they can be when trying to cover it up. There’s next to no hope of us finding justice among the cops. I can almost hear her heart break as a tear traces a wet trail down her cheek.

And something in me breaks along with it.

_I let her down._

_I let her down._

_I LET HER DOWN._

SCREW THE NO-INJURY POLICY. I somehow work my arms out of Mechaforge’s hold and start twisting myself around, pummelling every part of him I can reach. Through the thundering of my heartbeat and the haze of unhinged rage, time seems distorted - my hands grabbing at a metallic gleam seems to come blank seconds after a grunt of pain from someone who shouldn’t be in pain, a blur of motion around me, Lady Light shouting “Stop him!”

Then, just like that, everything comes into crystalline focus.

I’m standing on Voltron’s shoulder, the transmitter in hand, looking down at the Defenders and my stunned partner. Mechaforge has a hand over one eye. I must have hurt him somehow.

_Small pain compared to what you’ve endured._

I don’t silence the intrusive thought this time. I have a more important job at hand.

“I’ll make this right,” I shout to the Gremlin. “I promise.” Then I lift the transmitter and settle it on my own head.


	41. I am One with a Giant War Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Believer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0DM5lcj6mw)

I hold out my hands and look down. Voltron mimics the motion. In unison, our hands clench into fists and we stand taller. I will Voltron to take its first step under my control. It obeys instantaneously, its enormous foot passing well over the Defenders’ heads.

I’m getting the hang of this.

On my command, Voltron strides down the street, closing in on the sprawling magnificence of Daibazaal Manor.

Lady Light shrieks a battle cry from well behind and below. She rockets after us.

Bad idea, princess. I’ve got intuition and a war machine on my side. Voltron swats her out of the air before she can tackle me or blast me with a light wave.

The Dark Knight teleports through my shadow. I simply step aside and introduce Voltron’s fingertips to his chest. He goes flying. Fortunately for him, Lady Light catches him before he hits anything.

Well behind us, Mechaforge is struggling to keep up while not dropping a writhing Gremlin. I can hear his heavy breathing from here. Odd; he’s never been so easily winded before.

But that’s inconsequential. Voltron wards off Lady Light as she tries again to attack me, and stops in front of Daibazaal Manor.

Matt’s in there somewhere. I can find him, but first I need to do a little demolition. I hold up my hand as if readying to signal someone to fire. Voltron pulls back its arm.

My fingers curl into a fist, and Voltron strikes.

“STOP!”

Voltron halts, the knuckles of its fist less than a foot from smashing into Zarkon’s pristinely shingled roof. As one, we turn and look down.

There, in the middle of the street, stands the last person I ever expected to see.

Keith.


	42. We Pause to Talk Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were two squirrels fighting outside my window while I wrote this, which was great.

Keith stands in the middle of the street, still straddling his bike, looking like he dropped everything to get here. He doesn’t even have a helmet on. A dozen or so feet behind him, the Defenders gather, silent save for Mechaforge’s panting, but his eyes remain fixed on me. “Come down,” he calls.

And get nabbed by superheroes? No thanks. I square my shoulders as Voltron bends down and, moving intentionally slowly enough that Keith could run away if he wanted to, carefully scoops him up. It straightens and holds its hand up so that the two of us are almost eye to eye. We look at each other.

“You came back,” I say. My voice sounds strange, lost and broken.

Keith looks like he wants to cry. “You have to stop this, Lance,” he says softly.

I feel my expression harden. “I can’t. I have to do this, for Pidge.”

“No.” Keith looks deep into my eyes with more intensity than I’ve usually seen in him, searching for something. “I don’t think that’s the full reason. You’d have come up with a plan that doesn’t hurt anyone if it was just for her. Why are you _really_ doing this?”

_Oh, so_ now _you’re significant._

“Because Wild Notion is the _only part of me_ anyone has _ever_ believed in,” I shout. “You know who I was before I became Wild Notion? McClain’s Boy. The youngest, so the one whose education ended at high school, the one who’d run the farm when his parents got too old, while the rest of his siblings got to chase their dreams. That was _all_ anyone saw when they looked at me!” My voice cracks, but I keep going. “No matter what I did, I couldn’t change how lowly everyone thought of my ability to accomplish anything. My parents doubted me so much they _cut me off altogether_ when I tried to convince them to send me to college. Do you know how _terrible_ it feels to be on your own in a strange city, knowing you don’t have a family to go to if things get rough? And when your money starts to run out and the job you find isn’t enough to keep you in class, fed, and off the streets at night? Stealing got me out of that mess and introduced me to Pidge. And when I put the mask on for the first time, when I took that first bank box from the CCCU without getting caught...” I take a deep breath. “It felt _good._ I felt _worth something_ for the first time in years. When the police couldn’t catch me, and I started appearing in the news, it was like the world was finally acknowledging that I could be more than what everyone said I was.”

_But…_

“But it didn’t last.” My voice is shaky with pent-up tears, but also with mounting anger at the world. “And now I’m standing here, about to destroy someone’s home to prove to the world and myself that I am the villain I’ve been built up to be, using a machine I basically sold my soul to help assemble for a partner who thought I was a failure until recently.” I chuckle bitterly and shake my head. “You know, you were right to listen to Shiro. Finding someone better to spend your time with once you learned what I really was, that was the smartest thing you could have done.”

“He didn’t tell me,” Keith says quietly.

A bitter reply dies on my tongue. “... _What?_”

“Shiro didn’t tell me,” Keith repeats. “And I didn’t ‘find someone better’. I’m sorry for abandoning you,” he adds remorsefully. “I never wanted to, or even meant to. But I needed time to figure out why Shiro disliked you so much, and I didn’t want to make things between us super awkward and tense.”

“So you completely disappeared from my life for over a _month?_” I cut in.

“I’m really bad with relationships, okay?” Keith cries. He takes a deep breath and continues. “And I needed some time to think after I realized Lance and Wild Notion were probably the same person, to… figure out how I felt about all that.”

I suddenly have a hard time breathing. Intuition, warning me ahead of time, or just the look in Keith’s eyes?

Keith hesitates for a moment. Then he says, so softly I barely hear him, “That’s also when I realized I love you _with_ the mask as well as without.”

Wait.

Wait, _what?_

A tiny gasp escapes me. Keith… loves me? _All_ of me?

The world is silent as Voltron slowly lowers Keith to the ground. Then it kneels and bows its head. I step off, my eyes never leaving Keith’s.

He smiles at me and my heart flutters. “I believe in Lance,” he says in a voice meant just for me.

I smile back hesitantly and remove the transmitter from my forehead. “I think I do too,” I whisper back, holding it out in offering. He reaches to take it.

In the next instant, something blurs between us, and the transmitter is snatched from my hands. Keith and I whirl to face Voltron, where the thief is now perching on the robot’s head.

“How touching,” Lotor says maliciously, putting on the transmitter. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your little moment, but I _do_ have a city to take over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, you guys probably weren't interested in the squirrels.


	43. Lotor Has Feelings Too - Villain-y Ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Black Blade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z28lwyQjuTY)

“_Lotor_,” I growl, pulling Keith behind me.

Lotor makes a face combining equal parts contempt and dismissal. “Indeed. Your powers are _most_ impressive, Wild Notion.” He sneers at Keith. “Although perhaps your friend has tamed some of the _wild_ out of you. No great loss, I can assure you,” he says mock-conversationally to Keith. “The last time we had the… _pleasure_ of meeting, he was audacious enough to punch me and loot my unconscious body. _Most_ impolite.”

“Give me the headband, Lotor,” I grit out.

Lotor shakes his head. “Give away the thing I’ve worked so hard for over two years to get? I think not.”

My mind races. “Over two years? So that means-”

“_I_ abducted the Holt boy,” Lotor agrees languidly. “Not my father, who your dear partner so obligingly decided to attack. I never did like that set-minded old barbarian.”

“But… _why?_” Pidge can’t ask these questions, so I’m doing it for her. And for myself. “What good does an ordinary teenager do you?”

“None whatsoever.” Lotor smirks. “His genius, technology-powered little sister, however, is a different story.”

“Mrr?” the Gremlin says through her gag.

“Yes, you.” Lotor sighs dramatically. “I needed technology to take over this city after the Three Dunce-keteers over there” - he shoots a look of loathing at the Defenders - “sent most of my gang to jail. So I did my research, found someone with the skills I needed, and gave her a reason to build weapons.” He looks almost hungrily at the Gremlin, and I come dangerously close to snapping again. Then those malevolent eyes move to me. “It was perfect. I was to offer my services, gain her trust, then steal the tech and leave her to the police when the time was right. But she decided to work with _you_ instead.” _I can’t imagine why_, says his tone. _You are very underwhelming._ “And that would not do,” Lotor goes on. “So naturally, I had to change that. A bit of detail-dropping here, a bit of redirection there...” He indicates Keith.

I get his drift. “You spied on us and led Keith to wherever each heist took place,” I accuse.

“But it was always _Wild Notion_ I saw and followed,” Keith says, confused.

“Appearance-altering friend,” Lotor says with a lazy shrug. “Arrested about a month ago along with my other gang-bust survivors, but that’ll be the first thing to change once I take over. The Empire _will_ rise again.”

“Why are you _telling_ us all this?” I demand.

“Yeah,” Mechaforge pipes up. “The bad guy _always_ gets beaten after he shares his evil plan. Haven’t you ever read or watched, like, _anything?_”

Lotor laughs. The sound is sharp and cold, and a shiver runs down my spine. Despite his elaborate vocabulary and calm demeanour, there’s a note of insanity in his voice. We’re in danger.

“Your arrogance and ignorance are amusing, my mentally challenged adversary. Even if you were to survive, this information would do you no good. However, I doubt any of this will be your concern much longer. As Wild Notion so helpfully demonstrated, the mighty Defenders are no match for… _this._” He lifts his arms (not unlike Elsa raising her ice palace) and Voltron rises to its full height. It might be my imagination, but its face as it looks down at us seems to convey something dark and menacing. Then it turns and plunges both hands into Daibazaal Manor’s roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the squirrel fight. I was writing by the door leading onto the deck - it's that kind of door that's basically a window with a knob and hinges - and two squirrels decided to duke it out on the birdbath, which serves as a bird feeder in winter. Sunflower seeds flew, and they scuffled for a bit before falling off. They then decided they wanted to chase each other around the yard a bit, and then they disappeared into the neighbour's yard. Oh, and they were hollering the whole time.
> 
> The experience was... _nuts._


	44. The Defenders Meet Their Match

I tackle Keith. We hit the pavement and roll, seconds before a chunk of roof spears the ground where Keith was standing.

“Defenders, to action!” Lady Light shouts. She jumps into the air and streaks after Voltron, which is wreaking havoc on Daibazaal Manor. The Dark Knight and Mechaforge are right behind her.

As the heroes attack Lotor, I get to my feet, then help Keith up. “Thanks for that,” he says breathlessly. “Now what?”

I shake my head and stride over to where the Gremlin is lying prone on the ground, having been deposited there by Mechaforge. The light whip is still wrapped around her like a hungry python. I tug it off her in coils, then check her for injuries. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” the Gremlin says, getting up gingerly. “Just bruised. And ashamed. It’s my fault Lotor’s got Voltron.”

“Voltron?” Keith echoes. “As in the TV show?”

“Yeah.” The Gremlin gives him a quizzical look, then holds out her hand. “You must be Keith. I’m the Gremlin. If we get out of this in one piece, you can call me Pidge.”

Keith shakes her hand before turning to me. “I thought you said your friend was a boy.”

“Identity protection,” I explain briefly.

“Is _nobody_ fooled by my disguise?” the Gremlin complains.

“Hunk seemed pretty unsure,” I offer.

Keith tilts his head. “So you know he’s…?” I nod. Keith also nods, more slowly. “How many of the Defenders’ secret identities do you know?”

“All of them,” I admit.

“Of course you do,” he sighs. “Speaking of, shouldn’t we be helping them?” His question is underscored by Lady Light nearly slamming into the ground a few feet away. At the last second, she regains control and shoots off in the other direction, heading back into the fight.

“At this point, I don’t think it’s safe to offer,” I say. “Gremlin and I aren’t exactly best buds with the Defenders, and no offense, but I don’t think you’re a strong enough fighter to take on a lunatic with a giant robot.”

Keith opens his mouth to protest, then closes it. He sighs again. “You’re probably right,” he admits grudgingly.

“Of course I am,” I say matter-of-factly. “I have intuition and foresight. Duck.”

“Wha-” Keith hits the dirt, narrowly avoiding getting beaned by a chunk of drywall. Voltron has damaged several surrounding buildings in the fight. “Thanks,” Keith says, standing back up. “But I mean it. We should be doing more than just standing here and talking.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to help,” I say. “It’s just...”

“Getting lumped in with Lotor and hauled into court after the battle is still a probable outcome,” the Gremlin finishes.

At that moment, Mechaforge tumbles to a stop at our feet. “I tried to trip that thing and it almost _crushed_ me,” he pants. “Stuff hurts me now! What the heck did you _do?_”

Lady Light lands beside him and the Dark Knight stumbles out of a shadow to join them. “This isn’t working,” the leader of the Defenders says grimly. She looks at me. “We need your help.”

“What?” the Dark Knight exclaims.

Lady Light frowns at him. “Mechaforge is vulnerable now for some unknown reason. The two of us aren’t enough to bring that machine down on our own, and the police are not qualified to handle a situation like this. These two are our best chance at defeating Lotor.”

The Dark Knight is silent for a moment. Then he looks me in the eye. “We need a way to shut that thing down. Did you put in any weak spots?”

The Gremlin and I exchange a look. “You need more than that,” I say firmly. “You need a plan. And you’re in luck - plans are our specialty.”

Lady Light holds out her hand and I take it. “Welcome to the team,” she says solemnly. “Now, tell us what we need to do.”


	45. I Wind Up in the Limelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'm so sorry for not posting yesterday. My schedule was really wonked up :(
> 
> [Confident](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3QbCdZbR1M)

We gather in an alley behind a mostly untouched building. “Shouldn’t we be keeping an eye on Lotor?” Mechaforge asks nervously.

The Gremlin rolls her eyes. “It’s a robot as tall as a building. We’re not exactly going to _lose_ it.”

“So what’s the plan?” the Dark Knight asks, addressing the Gremlin.

She points at me. “Ask him. I’m the long-term planner.”

Everyone turns to focus on me. Their attention gives me an unfamiliar pleased feeling. _I’m_ in charge right now.

Focus, Lance. “We’re going up against Lotor Daibazaal, the ex-leader of the Empire,” I begin. “He’s a predator. Pretty fast and strong, but his real power’s in his claws. Any surface they cut into explodes with that purple fire you saw at the lab. Do _not_ let him nick you. The other thing that makes him a threat right now is Voltron. It might shock you to hear this, but Voltron is a giant armoured robot.”

“This is no time for jokes,” the Dark Knight says sharply.

The Gremlin shushes him. “It’s how he deals with stress. Now let him finish.”

Dark Knight stops talking.

“Voltron is controlled via neurocranial transmission and reception technology - the headband. We could try to separate it from Lotor by taking the transmitter, but it would be a lot harder and more dangerous.” I turn to the Gremlin. “You left exposed spots in the neck and chest, right? Are there any others?”

“There’s one in its back,” the Gremlin answers immediately, starting to put the pieces together.

I nod. “Great. Our best bet is to get you to that open spot so you can shut Voltron down from the inside. Without it, Lotor should be a lot easier to deal with.”

“What about me?” Mechaforge asks. “I’m still super strong, but I’m not indestructible anymore.”

I mull that over. “You must have an Achilles heel of sorts,” I say after a moment. “I probably hit it while trying to get away from you. We could probably reactivate your invulnerability by hitting it again.” He opens his mouth, but I shake my head. “I don’t know where it was I all hit you. I wasn’t in my right mind when I did it. That’s where you come in,” I say to Keith. “Hang back and help him find his Achilles heel. As soon as you guys find it, Mechaforge, you come help us take Lotor down. Keith, you call the police and do what you can to keep the civilians from getting too close until the cops can take over crowd control.”

“What will _we_ be doing?” the Dark Knight wants to know.

“Glad you asked.” I gesture at each person as I mention them. “Lady Light, you’re our diversion. Draw Lotor’s attention, keep him focused on trying to catch you. If possible, try to get the transmitter. Dark Knight, you and I will be in charge of getting the Gremlin to the exposed spot on Voltron’s back. You’ll teleport us as close to the spot as possible, and I’ll bring Gremlin the rest of the way. Any questions or objections?” Nothing. I take a deep breath. “Before we go, I need to apologize for all the damage I did earlier. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You hit your breaking point,” Keith says softly. “And I don’t blame you. You’ve been through a lot.”

I let myself smile a little at that. “Thanks, Keith.”

The Gremlin clears her throat quietly but pointedly.

“Right,” I say briskly. “Let’s go save our city.”


	46. What Team? DEFENDERS!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Master of Shadows](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-PqGc3qiXIs)

Lotor isn’t hard to find. A trail of flattened cars, crumpled streetlights, and partially-wrecked buildings indicates clearly which way he went. Oh, and the giant metal head with the brightly glowing eyes that can be seen above most of the buildings. That’s a bit of a giveaway.

They’ve gone through several blocks by now. To catch up, the Dark Knight offers to teleport us there. The Gremlin chooses to hitch a ride with Lady Light instead, but I accept. The trip isn’t nearly as scary or claustrophobic when I take it voluntarily, and as an ally instead of an enemy.

“You know the plan,” I say as Lady Light drops off the Gremlin behind the half-crushed SUV the Dark Knight and I are hiding behind. “Keep him busy. Get the headband if possible. And whatever you do, don’t let him get you with those claws.”

Lady Light nods and takes off, whips trailing behind her threateningly.

I turn to the Dark Knight. “Once you’ve gotten us up there, help her with Lotor, okay?”

The Dark Knight nods slowly. “I misjudged you,” he says.

Wow. Unexpected and a tiny bit flattering, but badly timed. “Thwarting evil first, heartfelt conversation later,” I say. “How close can you get us?”

“The shoulder,” he answers after a moment of scrutinizing Voltron. “Where the neck attaches to the body. He might notice you though.”

“Can’t you turn invisible when you’re in the shadows?” the Gremlin asks.

“_I_ can, but I can’t make others invisible.” The Dark Knight sighs ruefully. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take. The absolute closest I could get you would be Voltron’s armpit, but only one of us can stick to vertical surfaces.”

“The shoulder it is,” I agree. “Let’s go.”

The Dark Knight takes both of us by the arm and we melt into the shadow. We emerge with our backs practically flattened against Voltron’s neck. The Gremlin immediately turns on her elecromagnetic shoes, entering the tech and exiting so quickly that all I see is her form flickering for a nanosecond.

“Good luck,” the Dark Knight whispers, and then he’s gone.

The Gremlin and I wait a little bit until Lady Light gets her whip wrapped around Voltron’s wrist and tries to wrangle it. Then the Gremlin climbs onto my back and I carefully start my descend. “It’s the small of its back,” she tells me in a voice so quiet it’s barely even a whisper. “Dead centre.” I nod and adjust my angle.

Crawling headfirst down a vertical surface on an enormous robot as it’s rampaging and fighting superheroes is no picnic. I don’t recommend it. We have to stop every time Voltron jerks or shakes, which is often.

“How you doing?” I ask after a few minutes.

“Not great,” the Gremlin mumbles. “Lots of blood flowing to my head.”

_I_ feel fine (gravity doesn’t seem to affect me the same way when I’m wallcrawling) but that’s a problem. “Hang on.” I slowly shift so I’m climbing down feet first. “We’ll do it this way for a bit, okay?”

The Gremlin’s only response is a sigh of relief.

There’s no difference in the speed of our descent. I’m going as fast as I can under the circumstances, but our process is maddeningly slow. It feels like ages since the Dark Knight teleported us up here.

“You heroes are stubborn fools,” Lotor shouts from above us. “Haven’t you taken enough of a beating to realize you can’t win? Or do you enjoy losing so much that you’re coming back for more?”

“I’m back alright,” I hear Mechaforge bellow. “But not to lose. You’re going down!”

“They did it,” I breathe.

The Gremlin taps my shoulder. “Focus, Wild Notion.”

“Sorry.” We’re so close. Only a few metres left-

“So that’s your plan.” The voice cuts through the noise like a knife. We both look up.

Lotor stands above us, eyes focused on where we’re perched. “Very clever,” he says softly, dangerously. I sense up, my entire being humming _DANGER DANGER DANGER_. “Work together like good little girls and boys and make me look like a FOOL!” Lotor’s voice rises in volume with every word. He swings Voltron’s arm and sends the upper part of a skyscraper flying.

_Good thing it’s a Sunday_, my brain whispers uselessly. I push the thought aside.

Lotor is in a towering rage. “You thought you could blindside me with your mediocre little _scheme?_” he roars.

_LOOK OUT!_

“We have to go,” I say urgently, flipping onto my back and shifting the Gremlin to my front in one motion. “Hang on!” The Gremlin tightens her grip as I slide down Voltron’s back. We only have one shot to get her into that exposed wire. “Get ready to jump,” I shout.

Closer… closer...

And then something hits me like a truck, and we’re airborne. Through our screaming, I have a second to realize what happened - Voltron used an uprooted streetlight like a backscratcher to sweep us off - before my vision fills with wall. To our right- a window! I do my best to adjust our trajectory and curl myself around the Gremlin before we hit. There’s the pain of impact, the crash of shattering glass, and then we’re rolling across the floor, bruised but otherwise unharmed.

“Are you okay?” I gasp, climbing to my feet.

“Yeah,” the Gremlin pants from where she landed. Hitting the ground separated us. “We have to get back out there.”

I look around and spot a fire escape. “Come on.” We rush outside and down the metal stairs as quietly as possible. Lotor seems to be preoccupied. He kicks Mechaforge across the street and into the wall of a gas station, then sweeps a hand through the roof, burying the hero in rubble.

With an enraged shriek, Lady Light arrows in straight for Lotor’s face. A light wave blasts from her outstretched hands, but it never hits. Voltron slaps her out of the air, and she slams into a wall, sliding to rest in a heap on the ground.

I know she’ll heal herself and be fine in a few minutes, but I can’t help wincing at the blow.

The Dark Knight seems to be doing better than his teammates, teleporting around Voltron’s body and attacking every weak-looking spot he can find, but when Lady Light hits the ground, he rushes to teleport her out of the way, just in time to prevent Voltron from crushing her.

Then Lotor turns his attention to us.

“Look out!” I shout, diving down the stairs to safety.

The Gremlin isn’t so lucky. Voltron’s hand scoops her up along with the section of fire escape she’s standing on. I hear her screaming as she’s lifted out of view. “I can’t have nasty little gremlins sabotaging my work,” Lotor comments, sounding fully insane. “Stay here. I’ll deal with you later.”

He’s stranded her on the roof. At least she’s safe for now. I jump the last few metres to the ground and run to where Mechaforge is still buried. “Are you okay?” I hiss.

A gloved hand pokes out of the mound and gives me a thumbs up. “We found my Achilles heel,” comes a muffled voice. “Behind my left ear. I’m fine, just… stuck.”

“Hang on.” I start heaving away some of the chunks. A scrabbling sound from the pile tells me Mechaforge is doing his best to help.

_HIDE!_

I drop the piece I’m holding and duck. The ground shakes alarmingly.

“Come out, Wild Notion,” Lotor calls. “I need to have a word with you. Come out!”

I need to run. This pile won’t keep me hidden for long, and I can’t endanger Mechaforge. I look around.

There! An alley across the street from where I stand practically glows as my eyes land on it. Getting there without being spotted will be tricky, but if I make it, I’ll be able to hide there long enough to come up with a new plan.

It feels like Voltron’s footsteps are heading away from me. I count to three in my head, then take off. Twenty feet… fifteen… ten...

“There you are.” Giant fingers curl around me with predatory speed, cutting my mad dash short just a few feet from the alley. I struggle frantically as Voltron lifts me, but it’s no use.

I’ve been captured by the enemy.


	47. A Request From The Author

Hey guys. I know y'all are waiting to see what happens next, and I promise I'll post the next chapter on schedule. But I need some help, and I thought you guys would be the best people to turn to.

I'm doing a movie cover for my GD exam, and I decided to do Can't Stop Me Now. If any of you could give movie-style reviews in the credits, I would be thrilled to use them. And I'll post pictures of the finished project, I promise.

Thank you so much!!


	48. I am Subjected to Classic Evil Ranting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the chaptering!

When I used Voltron to pick up Keith, I made sure it was as slow and nonthreatening as possible, and Voltron’s hand was open the whole time, more like a platform than a closed hand. Lotor doesn’t give me that courtesy. My stomach lurches queasily as Voltron holds me up to its face like a doll it wants to take a closer look at. I feel sympathy for Keith, being speared by Voltron’s headlight eyes.

“Let me go!” I shout.

Lotor tilts his head and regards me lazily from his new perch on Voltron’s shoulder. “Mmm, no. You _are_ my worst enemy, after all.”

“Worst enemy?” I repeat, surprised. “What?”

“Don’t play the fool,” Lotor sneers. “It doesn’t become you.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“It’s quite obvious that you’re the root of most of my problems,” Lotor continues. His tone is candid, but I can hear the instability lurking just below the surface. He could snap again at any minute. “First there was your interference with my plan to gain the Holt girl’s trust.”

“How could I have known?” I grunt. Voltron’s grip is very tight.

Lotor ignores me. “And your persistence in staying with her of course. You’ve been _such_ a hindrance. But the last straw was that ridiculous last-ditch plot of yours just now. Terribly ill thought out, but, I must admit, very nearly the end of me. You aren’t a _complete_ ignoramus.”

“Hang on,” I cut in. Stall for time, let the Defenders come up with a new plan. “What makes you think it was _my_ plan?”

“Oh _please._” Lotor waves a hand dismissively. “Using the city’s beloved heroes as a distraction so two known villains could ‘save the day’? Such irony has your name written all over it.”

“It’s called _teamwork_, Lotor,” I say between clenched teeth. “Irony had nothing to do with it.”

“Nevertheless,” Lotor says imperiously, “you’ve been my biggest, most recurring obstacle this whole time. And as the person who’s come the closest to stopping me, you’ll have to be dealt with accordingly.” He looks around dramatically. “You’re fond of this city, aren’t you?” I don’t answer. Bad things come from answering questions like that. But Lotor reads it in my face. “Mm. And that… _charming_ little blogger who’s taken such an interest in you - I presume you feel the same way?”

My heart stops. “Leave him alone.”

Lotor laughs derisively. “My esteemed enemy, do you really think I feel _any_ compulsion to listen to you? And even if I did, your friend doesn’t seem inclined to leave _me_ alone.” He gestures at something behind me. I turn and look down to see a familiar dark-haired figure running toward us. My already stricken heart sinks into my soles. Keith was supposed to stay and wait for the police! What’s he doing _here?_

_You_ know _why_, my mind whispers. _He wouldn’t hang back if he thought there was nothing he could do._

“You _do_ care for him,” Lotor says delightedly. “Good.”

“Leave him ALONE!” I shout, struggling wildly.

“Oh Wild Notion,” Lotor says, shaking his head sadly. “If only you hadn’t stood in my way.” An insidious smile spreads across his face. “Now you have to watch your city suffer, starting with that boy.”

“NO!” I throw myself against Voltron’s fingers with everything I have in me. It’s not enough. _I’m_ not enough.

_I believe in Lance._

My struggling doesn’t cease, but I feel my panicked thoughts slow.

Keith’s voice comes again: _I believe in Lance._

My heart gives an oddly strong _thump._ Something’s happening to me.

Pidge’s voice joins Keith’s, and then Hunk’s. Shiro’s voice is next, followed by Allura’s and, absurdly, Marceline’s, all whispering their encouragement.

_... don’t know what I’d do without you…_

_... a great person…_

_... deserve a friend like you... _

_... good luck…_

_... need your help…_

_I believe in Lance._

My heart beats stronger with every word. Something like adrenaline without the panic spreads through my body. They all believed in me, even after I messed up. And now they’re all counting on me to protect them from this overpowered psychopath.

I can’t let them down.

I _won’t_ let them down.

Suddenly, Voltron’s hold doesn’t seem so tight. I put my hands on its forefinger and thumb, curl my fingers into the metal, and push.

The digits come apart with so much force that they separate from the hand completely. I tear through the rest of the fingers, then step onto Voltron’s palm as they fall. Time doesn’t seem to slow, exactly, but I suddenly feel like it doesn’t affect me as much. I ball my hands into fists and look Lotor in the eye.

“You want to hurt all those innocent people? You’ll have to go through me first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was super cliche, I'm sorry


	49. My Enemy and I Kick Each Other's Butts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four chapters to go...
> 
> [Invincible](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPiWUq5DUjE)

I stand on what remains of Voltron’s ruined hand, feeling amazing. My heart’s definitely beating harder than normal, but not faster, or even painfully. A strange energy courses through me, and I know instinctively that _this_ is the full extent of my powers.

Lotor is incensed. “What is this? More trickery?”

“More like finding my true potential,” I answer confidently. “Now how about you come down here and find my fist in your face?”

“Cosmos City will _burn_ for your insolence,” Lotor snarls. He leaps off Voltron’s shoulder, claws out and at the ready.

I grab the edge of Voltron’s plating and pull. It peels away like cardboard. Hefting my new two-dimensional club as though it weighs nothing (which it practically does), I step forward and swing. The thick metal knocks the transmitter off Lotor’s head and sends him flying into Voltron’s chest instead of my face.

He catches hold of the chestplate and launches himself at me, snarling like a wild animal. Despite my newfound speed, I have little time to step out of the way. Lotor lands where I stood half a second ago, then pulls his sword from the sheath on his back and swings at me. There’s the harsh ringing of metal on metal as I block with my club.

We trade blows, none of them hitting their mark, in a sort of violent dance that leads us up Voltron’s arm and onto its shoulder. “You are becoming more troublesome by the minute,” Lotor growls, his face contorted with rage and effort.

“I try,” I respond, trying not to show how hard I’m working to not die.

“I will crush you, then force you to watch your beloved go up in flames before I kill you!” He feints, then stabs at me with his claws. At the last second, I bring my club up, and the lethal tips bite into the metal instead. I shove it into his chest and leap off Voltron’s shoulder, leaving him to take the brunt of the explosion.

On a normal day, I wouldn’t dream of risking a jump like this. Now, I land easily on Voltron’s chestplate, tear off a new weapon, and hop up to its opposite shoulder.

Lotor follows, armour smoking. His claws penetrate the war machine in places, and several miniature explosions wrack Voltron as the two of us continue to fight.

I’m not too worried about the fire hazard right now. There’s little to burn that isn’t protected by a thick layer of metal, which will melt rather than feed the flames. Also, I kind of have other things to keep me occupied. Things named Lotor, who is decidedly less handsome with wild eyes and his face contorted in a psychotic snarl. He’s gone full-on berserk.

In something approaching desperation, I hurl the chunk of metal at his face. It hits him dead on. Barely stunned, he rakes his claws along the offending weapon’s surface, then kicks it away. It lodges in a gap in Voltron’s body armour before exploding.

Okay. _Now_ there’s a fire hazard.

But I can’t dwell on that right now. I’ve thrown away my only weapon, and judging by Lotor’s nasty sneer, he won’t give me an opportunity to create a new one.

_Quiznack_.

I duck to avoid a stab at my face, then deliver a roundhouse kick to Lotor’s abdomen. He grunts in pain and, grabbing me by the leg, throws me into Voltron’s head. Ouch.

As I sit up, intuition tells me to look down at my leg. Ten small holes are smouldering in the fabric, their edges glowing a threatening purple. I tear off my boot and hurl it as far away from me as I can, right before it explodes. Luckily, Lotor’s claws didn’t penetrate further, or I’d have my leg blown off.

No time to reflect.

I dive to the side. Lotor’s sword sinks into Voltron’s head up to the hilt. As he struggles to pull it out, I kick him in the stomach and then throw a punch at his face. He blocks it and retaliates by driving his shoulder into my chest, shoving me off Voltron’s shoulder completely. I catch myself before I can fall through the tendrils of smoke emerging from the cracks in Voltron’s armour. As I stabilize myself, an ominous rumbling and creaking begins deep in the robot’s innards. That can’t be good.

I quickly climb around the base of Voltron’s arm and up its back, then jump to its head. Just as I land, Voltron shudders violently. I glance down to see flames spurting from its joints - regular ones. Lotor’s explosions must have set off a chain reaction. The sounds of destruction are louder now, and ongoing.

_MOVE!_

I leap out of the way, and Lotor’s claws slice through the air instead of my face. While he’s off-balance from the strike, I kick his legs out from under him and run to the other side of Voltron’s head. My energy is fading, and the strength of my heartbeat is faltering. I can’t keep up this power for much longer. It should last long enough for one leap to that roof, though.

Voltron groans again, louder than any other noise it’s made so far, and starts to tilt as one knee buckles. I’d _better_ have enough strength for this. I prepare to jump.

“You’re a coward for running,” Lotor rasps behind me. “Accept your fate and die like a man.”

I turn to face him. “There’s no _time_ for this,” I shout. “We have to get away from here before Voltron goes down!”

Lotor stumbles toward me, panting, but still holding his hand in striking position. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re dead.”

“_Ay por Dios-_” I almost facepalm. “We can finish our fight _after_ we escape! _This thing is about to explode._ Come on!” Without waiting for an answer, I turn and push off Voltron’s head, aiming for the nearest roof.

Just as my feet leave the metal surface, there’s a sickening sound of contact, and my world explodes with pain. I scream louder than I’ve ever screamed before. There’s no more energy propelling me forward, no motion to get me to safety, only the agony of the blade buried in my back. And then the blade is gone - the pain, if anything, worsens with its absence - and I’m falling.

Through my tears, I see Voltron collapse, fire spreading across its surface, and hear a scream that doesn’t sound like mine. My mouth is closed, and it’s in this silence that I accept that I am about to die. The last thing I see is the flames of the growing inferno reaching hungry tendrils up to greet me. Then everything goes black and I know no more.


	50. Chapter 50

Voltron hits the ground before Wild Notion does. On impact, the already burning machine is wracked by a series of explosions within its structure, and the whole thing becomes a hellscape of flaming debris straight from a movie. It’s into this fiery nightmare that Wild Notion falls.

“NO!” The cry comes from five separate throats as the Defenders, the Gremlin, and Keith rush to the edge of the inferno. Mechaforge doesn’t hesitate before plunging in. Keith tries to follow, but the Dark Knight forcibly holds him back. “Let me _go!_” the boy shouts. “I have to save him! _Please_, Shiro-”

“There’s nothing you can do," the Dark Knight shouts over him. He wraps both arms around Keith’s struggling form and says more quietly, ”Mechaforge will get him out. Don’t get yourself killed for nothing.”

“_Please_,” Keith says again, but his fighting lessens a little.

On the Dark Knight’s other side, the Gremlin clutches Lady Light’s hand like a lifeline, staring into the blaze as if paralyzed. Beneath her mask, she mouths three words over and over again like a prayer: _Not again. Please, not again._

It feels like an eternity before Mechaforge emerges from the wreckage, cradling a limp form tenderly in his arms. The others gather around him in a silent rush, desperate to lay eyes on their friend, terrified of what they’ll see.

Wild Notion is deathly still. The wound in his back is plugged by Mechaforge’s headband, but there is blood soaking through his suit, which is riddled with tears and burns. One of his feet is completely bare, and large patches of blackened skin are visible where flames ate through the suit. His hood is gone, and his mask is half burned away, revealing one battered side of his face.

Mechaforge makes a sound like a strangled gasp. “Lance?” he whispers in a choked voice. His face fills with panic. “No no no no. Not Lance. _Not Lance!_ No. No no no no _no_...”

“The boy from the elevator,” Lady Light breathes as Mechaforge dissolves into tears. “No wonder he seemed familiar...” She puts one softly glowing hand on Wild Notion’s chest and focuses. Some of the burns fade from the boy’s skin, but he remains unresponsive and bleeding. Defeated, Lady Light hugs a sobbing Gremlin close, tears running down her own cheeks as the glow fades from her eyes.

The Dark Knight is also crying, though his mask hides it. In his arms, Keith has at last stopped fighting to break free. He simply stands there as if turned to stone, his shuddery breaths and the silent but steady flow of tears soaking his cheeks the only indications that he’s alive at all.

The five stand there for what feels to all like a long time, before sirens surround them and the police arrive to take control of the scene.

They’ve arrived too late. The damage has been done.


	51. I Turn Out to be Less Dead Than I Expected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say for myself.
> 
> [First Breath After Coma](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0o8JCxjjpM)

_Beep, beep, beep, beep…_

I jolt upright. “KEITH!” Then I groan and put a hand to my forehead as a blinding headache rips into me. “Owww.”

“Hey, easy. Everything’s okay.” The voice belongs to Shiro, who’s sitting in a chair beside my bed, watching me with an expression combining mild concern, greater relief, and a hint of amusement.

I look around. White walls, bland floral paintings and blah furniture, antiseptic aroma… “Am I in the hospital?”

“Bingo,” Shiro says. He sounds weird. It takes me a moment to realize that’s because there’s no hostility or even wariness in his voice. He’s relaxed and maybe even happy to be talking to me.

I rub my eyes and wince at the IV tube sticking out of my hand. “The fire, falling… how long was I out?”

“Long enough to scare us,” Shiro says wryly.

“Right.” I give him a sideways look. “And we’re one hundred percent sure I’m not dead.”

Shiro laughs. “You’re one hundred percent fully alive. We thought you weren’t for awhile.”

“We.” An image of Lotor standing over my friends’ dead bodies flashes through my mind, and I grab Shiro’s arm with a strength I didn’t know I was capable of at the moment. “The others,” I say urgently. “Are they…?”

“They’re fine,” Shiro assures me, gently removing my hand from his arm. “Worried sick about you, but fine.”

“And Lotor?” I can’t relax until I know he isn’t a threat to us anymore.

Shiro’s smile fades. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this,” he says seriously. “Lotor’s body hasn’t been found yet. All of us saw him fall with Voltron into the fire, and the police have their best men on the lookout for him, but we won’t know for sure until they find him. Oh, but they _did_ find his lair,” he adds more cheerfully. “They’re searching for Pidge’s brother as we speak.”

I sigh with relief. “That’s the important thing,” I say, leaning back against the headboard. In the next second, though, I’m sitting up again. “The police - aren’t they vying for Pidge’s and my heads?”

“About that.” Shiro clears his throat and looks very guilty. “We told the police Voltron was all Lotor’s fault, and you guys were framed.”

I laugh. “Lying to the authorities? I’m impressed.”

“Not technically _lying_,” Shiro defends himself. “Lotor _was_ the mastermind behind your guys’s intended crime.”

“Half-truthing, then,” I agree. That’s one crime off the list, then. “But-”

“We also said that Lotor was behind all the Voltron-related crimes you two committed,” Shiro says in a rush. “And we paid the bail money for the rest. You and Pidge are free.”

I open and close my mouth a few times before a sentence. “Shiro, I… That’s _amazing_. I don’t know how we can pay you back.”

“You already paid us back by exposing Lotor and helping take him down,” Shiro says earnestly. “And for not holding a grudge after that lab fire. That guard you saved vouched for you, by the way. She’s very grateful for the rescue.”

I flush and mumble something about not being able to just leave her there.

“Even without that,” Shiro continues, “I think a stab wound, critical exhaustion, and a plethora of bruises and broken bones would be more than enough punishment for the trouble you caused us. Lady Light managed to heal your bones,” he adds as I glance down at myself in alarm. “Along with the bruises and your minor burns. You’re still pretty battered, just not as much as you were before.”

I wince and nod. Then, unable to hold back the one question I _really_ want to ask any longer, I blurt, “How’s Keith?”

“He’s been very restless since you were moved out of the ER,” Shiro says with a smile. “The only reason he’s not here right now is because the nurse banished him from the ward - something about making the other patients uneasy. Same goes for Hunk and Pidge.”

I nod slowly. “But Keith’s not hurt?” I persist. “Lotor threatened to torture him, and I just...”

“Lotor never touched him,” Shiro says firmly. “Keith’s perfectly fine, aside from his impatience to see you again. He’s taken a break from being the Masked Reporter to sulk.”

I yawn. “You guys should do something about that name. He wants to be a _journalist_. ‘Masked Reporter’s’ misleading.”

Shiro gives me a searching look. “Lance, I owe you a big apology,” he says. “I let my experience with other villains change my perception of you. I treated you unfairly, and I’m extremely sorry for that. I never should have come between you and Keith.”

“It’s all good.” I yawn again. All this talking is really taking it out of me. “I’d probably do the same if I were in your shoes.”

“I was wrong about a lot of things,” Shiro says earnestly. “I promise I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt from now on.”

“It’s _okay_, Shiro, I forgive you,” I assure him, running a hand through my hair and blinking sleepily.

“Right.” Shiro clears his throat and stands up. “I’m going to let you sleep now. But before I go...” He smiles at me warmly. “I have an offer I’d like you to consider.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so first off. I'm SO sorry for leaving you guys on that cliffhanger for a week. I don't know what made me decide to do that. Being on hiatus reminded me of how much I love my daily updates and your comments, so I guess it wasn't an entire waste of time on my part? That doesn't excuse what I did to y'all, though.
> 
> But I'm going to take a break from my apology to announce that today I became  
A BIG SISTER FOR THE SECOND TIME!!


	52. The World is Actually a Pretty Great Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which your humble author most contritely apologizes again for the suffering she caused you and offers this meagre piece of fluff as a tribute to your patience and supportiveness
> 
> [Your Hand In Mine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdiY6kijYHE)

“There are no words to describe how fantastic it is to be out of the hospital,” I say happily, folding my arms behind my head as we walk.

“I’m just glad you’re not dead,” Hunk admits.

I huff in amusement. “Way to be positive, _hermano_.”

“Well I _am_,” Hunk defends himself. “When I pulled you out of the fire and realized it was my _best friend_ that got stabbed and dropped sixty-something feet off an exploding robot, I almost had a heart attack.”

“Well, I’m fine now,” I say. “Thanks to you, my best buddy and saviour of the city.”

“Oh shush.” Hunk pokes me playfully in the ribs. “If _anyone’s_ the saviour of the city, it’s you. _You’re_ the one who actually defeated Lotor and his monster robot goon.”

I consider this. “I guess so.”

“I bet you’re feeling more heroic already,” Hunk enthuses. “I mean, look at you! You’re not covering everything up anymore, even your new scars!”

I look down at my t-shirt and shorts. He’s kind of right. While I was stuck in the hospital recovering, I realized something: my scars are just scars. They don’t have to represent the events that have shaped me. Even my “hero” scars (the diamond-shaped stab scar near the middle of my back, and the burn scars; one covering my right leg from mid calf down and a few of various size and colour scattered across my limbs and torso; but nothing on my face, thank God) have little emotional impact when I look into the mirror. Being in a building full of people with their own wounds and scars kind of put things in perspective, I guess.

“I guess I _do_ feel less horrible about myself,” I agree.

Hunk gives me a rousing punch in the shoulder that almost knocks me off the sidewalk. “_That’s_ the spirit. Hey, you should find Keith and tell him how you really feel! Now that you’re Hero Lance, it’ll be easy!”

I swallow hard. Keith and I haven’t seen each other (awake) since the Voltron fiasco. Part of me is terrified he only said… _that_... to snap me out of my intrusive-thought-fueled insanity. “Yeah. Easy.”

Looking for Keith doesn’t take long. I find him hanging around the Voltron wreck, not taking pictures or notes on his phone, just staring at the scorched and twisted remains of Operation Iceberg.

“Hey,” I say, stopping beside him.

He jumps and turns to look at me. “Hey.”

We both look at the destruction. The police have put up yellow tape to block off the area. Miraculously, nobody died in all that chaos, except maybe Lotor. Still, it’s sobering to think of all the lives that could have been lost.

“Want me to nick you a bolt or something as a souvenir?” I offer. Keith furrows his brow at me. “Kidding,” I say quickly.

He huffs and looks away, but not before I glimpse the smile on his face. That smile gives me courage.

“I’m sorry for all the damage I caused,” I say softly. “I really messed everything up.”

“I get why you did it,” Keith says. “And I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago, actually.”

“After the big reveal at the lab?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Before that.”

“But… you sounded super betrayed when you saw me without the mask,” I say slowly.

Keith blinks at me, then laughs in a startled way. “You thought I was upset at _you?_ I was mad at _Shiro._”

“Wait. What?”

“Good _grief_, Lance,” Keith says, running a hand through his bangs. “I’m so sorry you thought that. No, I was ticked off because I’d already figured you and Wild Notion were the same person, and after you confirmed it and Shiro was such a butt to you, I got upset because he was treating you like scum for something that wasn’t even that bad.”

“You hated me as Wild Notion,” I remind.

Keith shakes his head. “You grew on me. And after I guessed the truth, I realized you couldn’t be doing something _too_ bad. Too many legal dreams,” he explains as I open my mouth to ask.

I nod. “Okay.”

“Speaking of.” Keith tilts his head at me. “What are you going to do now that Operation Iceberg is over?”

I shrug. “Just keep college-ing, mostly. The Holts have agreed to let me move in with them for as long as I need, and I’ve got enough money in the bank to pay for college for awhile. And I’ll go back to working at Kettle Corner soon.”

“I meant what Wild Notion is going to do.”

“Oh.” I gaze at Voltron’s razed corpse without really seeing it. “Well, I’m officially retired from the villain business.”

“I don’t think you ever really were a villain,” Keith says reflectively. “You just kind of stole stuff and annoyed people.”

“Uh huh,” I say dryly. “Whatever I was, I’m not doing it anymore. But Shiro did offer Pidge and me a job as members of the Defenders.”

“Did he?” Keith looks at me with wide eyes. “What did you say?”

“I asked for time to think it over,” I answer. “I’m not sure I want to say yes. It’s a lot of responsibility. And I don’t know how the public’s going to feel about the notorious Wild Notion joining the team.”

“Well _I_ think you’d do great,” Keith says loyally. “Personally, I think you should say yes. But it’s your choice.”

“Thanks, Keith.”

We fall into a companionable silence, watching workers pick through the rubble.

“I’ve been thinking,” Keith says eventually. “Cosmic Super Vision has a lot of information about our villains, but not on what to do if you run into one. I’m thinking about adding some self-defense videos, maybe some articles.”

“That sounds good,” I agree.

Keith gives me a sideways look. “I’d need help with demonstrations, though.”

“The Defenders could probably do a good job of that,” I offer. It’s nice to be included, but that’s really something he should have thought of himself.

“I’ve already asked for their help,” Keith says a trifle frustratedly. “What I meant was, I could really use a partner to help me run Cosmic Super Vision.”

“Oh.” My cheeks flame with embarrassment. “I’d love to.” Wait. My intuition’s acting up. Is this the wrong choice?

_NOW’S YOUR CHANCE. TELL HIM HOW YOU FEEL, IDIOT!_

“Actually,” I say haltingly. Keith looks crestfallen, and I realize it sounds like I’m changing my mind. “I’d really love to be your partner,” I add quickly, “but… the thing is… I want to be _more_.” He stares at me. I forge on. “If you don’t want to be more than friends and partners, that’s fine. I know I’ve done a lot of bad things that would push _anyone_ away. I hid the truth from you, I was rude to you, I abducted you _twice_-”

“Lance,” Keith says in exasperation, “what do you think I meant by _partner?_”

I immediately lose the ability to form words. Finally, I manage to squeak, “Really?”

“Good grief, you oblivious dork.” Keith laughs in disbelief. “Did you think I was lying when I _told you_ back then?”

I nod.

He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it. So you really didn’t know back at the café either? I thought it was so _obvious!_”

“I tried to say something, but you kept acting like you just wanted to be friends,” I point out.

“Because I thought that’s what _you_ wanted!” Keith clutches his head. “Good grief, we are _stupid_.”

“So are we dating now?” I ask awkwardly. “Do we… seal it with a kiss, or what?” I’m joking (sort of) but Keith’s eyes light up.

“We should definitely do that.” And then his hands are clasping my hands, and his lips are on my own. It’s my first kiss, and it’s _perfect_.

After a moment, he pulls away and smiles at me in a way that makes me think this is his first kiss too.

“_Pieienzo que puedo morir feliz_,” I stammer.

Keith laughs in surprise. “Did you seriously just _forget English?_”

“_Si_,” I admit, face flaming.

“Is this going to happen _every_ time I kiss you?”

“_Probablemente?_”

He gives me a crooked smirk. “Well, I guess I’ll have to learn Spanish,” he says <strike>very hotly</strike>, and kisses me again.

I smile at the irony even as I get lost in my second-ever kiss. Standing in front of the ruins where my life almost ended, it feels like my life is just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, it ends. Thank you for reading!


	53. I Think This is an Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just kidding! uwu
> 
> [Heroes (We Could Be)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_px5qpdt6UI)

“So, how has your ordeal changed you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

The boy sitting across from me laces his fingers together thoughtfully before answering. “Well, ever since, I’ve always thought twice about cutting through dark alleys at night.” We both laugh at his quip before he continues, “But seriously… Being kidnapped really showed me how much I have to lose. My family, friends, freedom, all of that is so easy to take for granted. But try going a year without any of it without realizing how lucky you are to have it.”

“Amen,” I say fervently. “Anything else you’d like to add before we wrap this up?”

“Absolutely.” He leans forward and looks earnestly into the camera. “Trust your instincts, guys. If it doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t. Never forget that, okay?”

“You heard him, Super Viewers,” I tell the camera. “Stay safe! Reporter Blanc, signing off.” I aim my finger guns and a Charmer at the camera.

“I still think ‘Super Viewers’ is kind of weird,” Keith continues, lowering his phone.

“You’re also the guy who requested a Butterbeer Frappucino to go,” I remind him. “From a café that doesn’t _do_ drinks to go.”

“And I _got_ it.”

I grin at him. “Because I have a sense of good weirdness and bad weirdness. There’s a reason _I’m_ not the camera man.” As Keith rolls his eyes good-naturedly, I turn to our interviewee. “Thanks for letting us interview you, Matt. Your story will help raise awareness for the cause.”

“Anything to teach others to not get themselves caught in villainous plots,” Matt says cheerfully. “Except maybe interviews with all those nosy newshounds that call themselves reporters.” He shudders.

“I feel ya,” I say sympathetically, remembering my own experience with being hounded by the press for the story of my involvement in the Voltron incident (as a victim, obviously; only the Defenders and Lotor-the-Most-Likely-Dead know the real reason I was in the hospital).

“We should go over our material,” Keith says.

I stand up. “Right. See you, Matt.” He salutes as we leave.

“Wearing masks for the videos was a good idea,” Keith comments as we walk. “Saves me a lot of editing later on.”

I give him a peck on the cheek. “_De nada_, Reporter Noir.”

Now that I’m a coproducer on Cosmic Super Vision, there’s been a shifting of usernames/pen names. He’s Reporter Noir (black mask), I’m Reporter Blanc (white mask), and together, we are the Masked Reporters. (‘Masked Journalists’ just doesn’t have the right ring to it.) It’s been a few months since Keith and I got together, and I can say with complete honesty that they have been the best months of my life. So much has changed for me, but this is by far my favourite modification.

My pocket buzzes. I pull out my shiny new phone, an early birthday gift from Sam and Colleen, and to see that I’ve received a new text:

> Pidgey:
> 
> wn - 38 + main

“Wild Notion time?” Keith guesses.

I nod and show him Pidge’s message. “Sorry, _lindito._”

He gives me a quick kiss. “It’s fine. See you when you get back.”

I smile at him, then trot off to find a suitable place to change.

“What kept you?” Lady Light asks a tad sternly as I arrive.

“Something perfectly legal,” I assure her needlessly. “Crossing Portview took a bit.” I look around. “What’s the situation?”

“Pedigree dognapping,” the Dark Knight says. “We need an idea of which way they went.”

I salute. “I’ll sniff them out in no time.”

“Hilarious,” the Gremlin grumbles, rolling her eyes as Mechaforge and I fistbump. Then I focus and take a slower look around the crime scene. A faint set of footprints pops out to me. I point. “That way. Maybe ten minutes ago. We’re looking for a German Shepherd puppy and someone wearing really small work boots.”

“Good job,” Lady Light says. “Keep that extra speed at the ready.”

“You got it.” As we take off after those poor dognappers, I glance back to see a familiar black electric bike following at a safe distance. Keith, ready to get the full story after we’ve done our job.

I grin. Those crooks better watch out. After all, I’m a superhero.

It’s what I was born to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, _now_ it's the end.
> 
> You guys have been amazing, and I'm so glad I got to share my wacky, late-night-Megamind-and-dried-mango-fuelled creation with you! If you liked this work, please feel free to check out my other works and help me choose my next project in [The Book of Fictions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20169574/chapters/47786353)


	54. Author's Note?

I just want to start by saying, I'm still so happy that I got to share my work with you, and I appreciate your input. I will be posting pictures of the project soon, I promise! But that's not the point of this note. I have an idea I want to run by you, and feedback would be _super_ helpful.

Recently, I started having ideas for a sequel to _Can't Stop Me Now_ \- not anything definite (yet), but still something I'm willing to pursue. If you guys think it's a good idea (and maybe have some ideas for the plot), I would love to explore it with you.

The sequel would be from Keith's perspective, and most likely provide more tie-ins to Voltron: Legendary Defender. I would also try to wrap up some of the loose ends left by _Can't Stop Me Now_.

What do you think? Should we go through with this? Let me know in the comments :)


	55. Return of the Author's Note

Hey guys! Me again. This isn't an overly serious note, just wanted to share some news: I'm another year older! <strike>ha ha i'm terrified</strike> To celebrate, I was wondering if y'all would like to see my (unprofessional) rendition of our beloved Defenders' masks in face paint <strike>even though it means you see my homely face?</strike>


	56. This is the last one, guys, I promise

Okay, so, plain and simple:

[MY GD PROJECT IS FINALLY DONE!](https://grahoriasfancave.tumblr.com/tagged/fanmade) Thank you so much for your help and your patience! (As for the face paint mask thing, I discovered I'm out of face paint for the time being. I'm looking for more.)

Edit: Just a couple of things to add here. First off, due to everything being closed because of the pandemic, I won't be able to purchase face paint for awhile. Sorry about the delay. And second, I've started cross-posting CSMN on Wattpad as @imaginethat333, so don't think someone stole it from me if you see it on there. (It hit #4 out of 3.5K VLD stories, I've been screaming for ten minutes)

Thanks so much for your patience!!

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to <strike>make my day</strike> ask questions, submit fanart, or find more of my work, you can come visit me on [Tumblr](https://grahoria.tumblr.com/). Your company is always welcome!


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